


These Are The Days

by sluttypumpkin



Series: Those Were The Days [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 80s to Present Day, Addiction, Affairs, Alcohol, Angst, Coming Out, Death, Depression, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Marriage, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Pregnancy, Queer Themes, Sex, Smut, Soulmates, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:09:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 151,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23482873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sluttypumpkin/pseuds/sluttypumpkin
Summary: Two up-and-coming journalists find themselves submerged in the chaos of Queen’s later years.
Relationships: Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury, John Deacon/Original Female Character(s), Roger Taylor (Queen)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Those Were The Days [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813303
Comments: 103
Kudos: 71





	1. Live Aid

Taking a long drag of her cigarette, Erica regards her hard work.

It was remarkable how much gear the BBC possessed. Boxes upon boxes of cables and back-up mics that she’d hauled up the steps of the Shaw Theatre, the hot July sun nipping at her copper skin.

The cameraman hadn’t bothered to assist, instead trying to see up her dress whenever she bent over to retrieve something from the van. She glares at the wretch from a distance, contemplating whether to lift the skirts even higher just to spite him.

The approach of a much kinder colleague distracted her from the prospect of revenge. “Should be all set up shortly” Ed Tetley breathes, flicking a ginger curl away from his glasses.

”You nervous?” Erica asks, nudging him playfully.

It was a miracle they’d been assigned a job like this. Both were 23, and more used to dull traffic reports than major interviews. They’d been busy trying to make the weather update sound interesting when one of their new bosses had walked by, bursting with excitement about his plan to bring in a younger audience by putting juniors on the frontline.

”Nervous? No” Ed shrugs, “For you, maybe.”

Erica fixes him with a crooked eyebrow. “What do you mean? I’ve already written your questions. I thought I was just tagging along for moral support.”

A mischievous grin spills onto the man’s lips, proudly flaunted as he steals her cig for a quick puff.

”Craig’s taken the week off. It doesn’t happen very often so I thought I’d make the most of it” he explains, eyes twinkling.

Chest tightening anxiously, Erica swipes back her smoke. She’d have put the damn thing out on his face if there hadn’t been others watching.

”You’re throwing away the biggest interview of your career so you can sit at home with your boyfriend all week?” she whispers, keen to spare her friend the taunts of that dreadful cameraman.

”Ed, this is _Live Aid_.”

The biggest concert ever planned was due to take place in three days' time. All over London, last-minute rehearsals were taking place, and Erica and Ed had, for reasons beyond them, been trusted to cover one of the most hotly anticipated acts.

In a panic Erica sucks furiously at what remained of her cigarette, eyes darting between her colleague and the open door of the practice room. _They_ were in there. The group she’d been a fan of ever since she saw them on Top of the Pops in 1974.

“You deserve this much more than I do” Ed sighs, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder, “And Craig and I deserve a few stress-free days.”

There was little use in arguing. She supposed she should find it sweet, him putting his relationship before his career. And it _did_ give her the opportunity she’d dreamt of ever since she began in journalism.

”You owe me for dumping this on me“ Erica concedes, punching lightly at him.

” _I_ owe you? You’re the one interviewing Queen” laughs Ed, bending down to peck her on the cheek.

Erica retrieves a microphone from the top of a nearby box, silently cursing herself for not rehearsing the questions herself. Ed frowns at the object. “That one’s broken by the way” he chirps.

He darts away before he can catch the middle finger his colleague flips his way.

The rest of the crew seem relatively unbothered by the last-minute change, the producer disinterested by the entire project. The cameraman winks. “Something pleasant for the viewers to see” he practically dribbles.

Erica finds she has the energy to raise her middle finger again.

“ _Fucking thing_ ” She slaps at the microphone, optimistic violence might yet breathe life into it.

A voice drifts to her from behind. “Might help if you put the battery pack in.”

She almost punches herself with it. Of course, there was no battery in it. Cheeks flushed red she retrieves a pack and hastily loads it in. An embarrassed ‘ _thanks_ ’ on her lips, she turns to greet her savior.

Erica’s sneakers root to the concrete floor. _That_ wasn’t one of the BBC crew.

That was the bassist from the band she was about to meet.

“I got my degree in electrical engineering,” he says, punctuating every word with a slight wobble of his impressive head of hair.

”Do you need to do three years at uni to figure out how to put a battery in a mic?” Erica retorts. Her chest hurt, her heart was going at such a pace. To think she always thought she’d be the sort of journalist who was _cool_ around celebrities.

John Deacon jerks his head nonchalantly, sliding his hands into his jeans, shoulders hunched. There was an awkwardness about him Erica hadn’t expected, as though he was just as nervous about meeting her as she was him. She’d always figured the shyness people credited him with was exaggerated.

“I suppose not, but it makes me feel better if I pretend otherwise” he lightly jokes, smiling just enough to expose the little gap between his front teeth. Completely and utterly _sweet_.

Erica leaps forward far too keenly when he holds out a hand. His handshake was a surprise too, much stronger than his slender frame would suggest. She could feel his calloused fingertips brush her skin, the mark of a seasoned musician. And not an entirely unpleasant sensation.

They make polite introductions, John gingerly giving the reporter his full name as though he wasn't a major rockstar, and Erica trying desperately to not sound like a star-struck schoolgirl. She could feel herself relax the more she spoke to him. He was _nice_. Totally free of arrogance. She hoped the rest of the band would be the same.

 _Talk about a baptism of fire_ , she thinks. This interview was about as in the deep end as she could possibly be.

Her producer gives the thumbs up and dons his headset. The crew that buzzes about the lobby of the theatre starts to thin. John checks his watch, gaze darting anxiously towards the practice space. There was no delaying it then. "I should get back to the others," he says, "Speak to you shortly I suppose". Erica watches him walk away, a slight spring in his step.

Excitement enters her thoughts now, the realization of how fucking great an opportunity this was. An intense buzzing between her ears, Erica follows in the bassist's footsteps, barely hearing the argument developing beyond.

"I'm not saying I hate your solos, Brian."

" _Good_."

"I'm just saying they go on too long."

Oblivious to the cameras pointed at them, Brian May and Roger Taylor bicker across separate rows of theatre seating, John perched awkwardly between them sporting a bored expression. A small distance away was Freddie Mercury, trying in vain to shake life into a spent lighter. Blinking away the awe-induced mist clouding her vision, Erica makes her entrance.

"Here" she coughs, holding her own lighter out. The man starts at first, wondering where she'd suddenly appeared from. Going by the surprise that flashed in his eyes, he didn't know who she was either. For one unbearable moment, Erica considers whether he'll cuss her for approaching so brashly. Then, bursting with sunshine, he smiles.

"God bless you, darling" Freddie sighs in relief, placing a fresh smoke between his teeth. He glances over his shoulder to where his guitarist and drummer fight on. "I think I might get through these _very_ quickly today."

"I know the feeling."

Erica relaxes the nails she'd been digging into her thigh. Freddie seemed lovely too. He had been the band member she'd been most afraid of offending while she was planning with Ed. She didn't want to embarrass the singer with it, but she looked up to him. Her parents weren't born in England either. In the face of abuse, Freddie made her feel more at peace with herself.

"I'll level with you right away, dear" Freddie states, "I don't take to journalists very well. I've been burned one too many times."

 _Oh_.

"I like to consider myself one of the less scummy ones" the reporter responds, suddenly rather jittery again. "I'm not interested in who you had sex with last night or what your darkest secrets are. I'd just like to chat about Live Aid if that's alright."

Freddie considers her, and Erica could tell by the look in his eye he was internally debating whether or not to trust her. Eventually, he nods, lips curling upward in approval. "Very well" he decides, sauntering over to his bandmates, "Though I do think you'd like those dark secrets of mine". He winks mischievously. Good thing Ed wasn't present. He'd have collapsed.

"Settle down, children" the singer orders. A frustrated hush descends, Roger and Brian left scowling at each other like upset siblings. They both rise to greet Erica when she approaches. She was struck by how soft Brian's voice was, instantly soothing her scattered thoughts, and amused by the lack of apology with which Roger glanced at her chest. He was very handsome, and didn't gawk at her in the way the cameraman usually did.

John waves at her cheerfully, then immediately blushes at the dorkiness of the gesture. Erica feels heat rush to her cheeks. She wasn't sure she'd ever met someone so instantly likable.

"What d'you want to know then?" the group's drummer poses, lounging back casually in his seat, "Where the bodies are buried?"

"Please," Erica says, "I've been looking for a decent spot to dump mine."

Roger grins.

"Quiet on set" the producer orders, "Ready to go, love?"

Erica nods, confident.

"Rolling in _3, 2, 1-_ "

* * *

When Ed had taken his impromptu holiday, it turned out he'd left Erica far more responsibility than she'd realized. To her great relief, she thrived on it.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been on her feet, or how many interviews she'd conducted. For her, Live Aid had so far been a succession of listening to sensational sets backstage then asking the artists responsible all about it, utilizing every penny of her training to hold their interest before the adrenaline wore off. Celebrities were quite easy to speak to after a while, she realized. Some were ruder than others. One or two were a bit handsy. But overall, the lineup was delightful.

She consults her schedule. Thank _fuck_. Queen were next. She'd been dying to speak to them again ever since rehearsals. They were four genuinely interesting people, vastly more complex than the outrageousness surrounding them suggested. She thought it a pity they'd had such bad experiences with people in her profession. She wouldn't have minded befriending the band.

On the periphery fly four bodies, bursting through the front curtain with their chosen instruments in hand. The Wembley crowd roar, whistling and cheering feverishly at the arrival of their latest entertainment. They positively erupt when the opening bars of _Bohemian Rhapsody_ float out.

Curiosity itches at Erica. Even from backstage, she could sense the electricity circling about the stadium. This was going to be a good one. And here she was, unable to see the performance until it was featured on the news later, forced to listen to applause for a set she couldn't actually see.

" _Mama. Just killed a man..._ "

It was no good. With a cautious glance towards her supervisor, who snored contentedly over his mixing desk, beer froth on his chin, Erica makes her way toward the wings. It was busy enough that no one noticed her sneak away. She's sure not to stand too close. She couldn't risk the army of cameras set around the stage picking her up. Comfortable with her escape, she perches on an unused amplifier.

The band is already transitioning into _Radio Ga Ga_ by the time Erica realizes there's someone standing next to her. Brushing away the tears Freddie's vocals had squeezed from her she spies a stocky man at her side. He was slightly similar to the singer, all dark mustache and kind brown eyes. He chuckles when she jumps.

"Didn't mean to frighten you" he insists, gentle Irish accent music to Erica's ears. He offers a tissue.

"Thanks. God, that was _beautiful_."

The Irishman beams proudly in Freddie's direction. "I'll never get tired of that voice" he breathes. Erica notices the way he gazes, her heart warming. She wanted a love like that.

"Jim Hutton"

”Erica Salib”

They shake hands, momentarily oblivious to the deafening claps of the audience in time with the music.

The new friends watch the rest of the set with wide eyes, stunned into silence for the most part by how incredible it was.

”He’s quite the dancer, isn’t he?” Erica observes happily.

John dances about on the spot, lost in the music.

”Always got his disco feet on” Jim agrees.

She giggles when the bassist swerves into an abrupt spin. She’s sure he looks over. There was no way he could have heard her laughing above the noise of the stadium. Perhaps she’d been looking at him too long. A conscious effort follows to stop.

And fails largely.

”Oi!” A rough hand pulls Erica down from her perch, threading to topple her completely. “You’re meant to be standing ready, not dicking about here.”

Jim shoves the cameraman’s hands off her, eyes narrowed angrily. Erica contemplates decking the jerk. Alas, he wasn’t worth losing her job over.

The cameraman stalks off, muttering some prejudice or other under his breath. “It still hasn’t sunk in that I was born in _Kent_ ” Erica mocks, “No cure for being a bastard, eh?”

”I find a few punches usually do the trick” Jim huffs.

”Still, I should get back to work.”

She glances at the band sadly. They were coming into the finale of We Are the Champions now. A sea of lighters were waved in the summer air, all 70,000 spectators singing along.

”It was lovely to meet you, Jim.”

”And you, love” the Irishman says softly, “Anymore trouble with that bloke and I’ll send Freddie round. He used to be quite the boxer.”

* * *

“Hello again.”

Brian hands his guitar over to an attending roadie, a tired smile on his face. He makes his way over without being prompted, by all appearances genuinely glad to see her.

One by one the rest of the band approach the camera, breathing heavy as they recovered from their appearance. And what an appearance it had been.

Erica still felt quite shaken by it, stunned even. She’d seen Queen in concert before. She’d seen rock groups perform to tens of thousands in colossal stadiums. But none of those experiences even came close.

Live Aid was becoming quite the occasion.

”Lovely to see you again, darling” Freddie greets, slinging an arm over her shoulder, “Enjoy the show?”

Erica eyes the camera ahead, looking for the red light above that meant it was active. “Seeing as we’re not on air right now” she says, “It was fucking _spectacular_.”

Roger twirls his drumsticks about his fingers, still twitching with excitement. “It felt so _good_ up there” he grins, “And Bob’s just told me the appeal’s reached one million.”

He kisses Erica and the other boys on the cheek one by one, squeezing them tight. He flips the cameraman off when he hears him snickering.

Shifting into place for the interview, Erica leans into John, remarkably quiet given what the band had just delivered. “ _Well done.”_

He doesn’t look away awkwardly this time. “ _Thank you._ ”

“Now, I promise I’ll make this quick so you can pop out the champagne” Erica pipes up, clearing her throat, microphone held up ready.

”Then _please_ get going, dear” Freddie warns.

The light above the BBC camera flashes green.

”Fresh off the stage after a stellar performance, I’m here with Queen” Erica begins, buoyed.

”I think it’s safe to say you blew the non-existent roof off here at Wembley. What did you make of the audience out there?”

”I only noticed the beautiful ones” Freddie answers, aiming a cheeky peek at the viewers, “By which I mean every single one of them.”


	2. Scrabble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erica gets to know the band a little better. And plays a game of Scrabble...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music mentioned:
> 
> Electric Ladyland by The Jimi Hendrix Experience  
> I Want Your Love by Chic  
> I Wanna Be Your Dog by The Stooges

The sun began to set over a lazy July day in London, and in one small apartment North of the river Ed and Erica lounged around, recovering slowly from the previous night’s exploits.

No amount of paracetamol could have voided the pounding in Erica's head. By now she'd just accepted it, counting on the headache being gone by the morning. Monday approached fast, and with it a return to the mundane work of old.

By all accounts, though, Live Aid had been a success. Erica hadn't been aware of it at the time, but the concert had been viewed by over a billion in the end. Being seen by the millions watching the BBC was enough pressure. Remarkably, she'd felt as bright as could be by the time she left Wembley. A huge celebration had followed with Ed and his boyfriend, Craig, who listened dutifully while she repeated all the brilliantly funny and enlightening things the musicians had said during her interview with them.

"Do you think you'll ever see him again?" Ed mumbles, peering out from beneath a large cushion. He'd started hiding when Erica pulled out her copy of _Electric Ladyland_ , which she insisted on playing at full volume despite their shared hangover.

"I hope so" Erica sighs wistfully.

The portions of the morning she hadn't spent crouched over the toilet had been consumed by a struggle to gauge whether or not her memories of yesterday, namely those involving the boys from Queen, were as pink-tinted as they seemed. Admittedly, everything had become a star-studded blur after a certain hour. She'd convinced herself at the time that she'd made quite a positive impression on the band.

"I thought you hated him."

Erica dismisses her friend's words with furrowed brows. "Why would I hate him?" She barely knew that particular person. What little she had seen of him in the meager _two times_ they'd interacted she'd liked. A lot. But who could blame her for developing a little crush?

With enormous effort, Ed pulls himself into a sitting position. "We're not talking about the same guy, are we?" he notes.

"Who are you on about?"

" _Matt_ ". He blinks hard. "The bloke you were engaged to."

Erica forces herself up, still clutching a pillow to her aching stomach, marching over to her record player. She was suddenly bored with Chic.

"I was chatting to one of the guys in the sound department. Apparently Matt's going 'round telling everyone how much he misses you."

A pity he wasn't so adoring when they were actually together, she thinks. Still, she wasn't bitter. She'd outgrown him. And twenty-three didn't seem the age to be settling down. There was too much fun to be had elsewhere.

Ed groans when he spots which "45 she replaces _I Want Your Love_ with, taking a long sip of tap water in preparation. "Who were you talking about, then?" he ponders, a delighted smirk slithering onto his features despite his pain. The blaring sound of _I Wanna Be Your Dog_ by The Stooges begins, forcing the man to retreat into the couch cushions. Erica shrugs. "Never you mind."

The two listen for a while, not saying much, finally starting to reach a level of comfort. Then the phone rings, shrill and loud. Sluggishly Erica grapples for it, holding the clunky receiver to her ear. “Hello?”

A low voice answers. “Who’s this?”

Erica rolls her eyes. Who else were they expecting? She gives her name. A strange silence follows.

”Don’t know any Erica’s” the mysterious caller says.

She didn’t have the energy for this. “Looks like you’ve got the wrong number then.” She moves to place the phone back on its hook when the voice changes, suddenly going up a few octaves.

”Is that it? You disappoint me, Salib.”

Erica stands up very quickly for someone who’d been chugging vodka until the early hours. _Fuck’s sake woman_ , she curses, having just caught herself readjusting her clothes as though the man on the other end could see her.

“Was the voice convincing?” Roger Taylor asks cheerfully.

”That’s truly the most masculine you’ve ever sounded” she fires.

“I’ll take it” the drummer settles.

“How’d you get my number?” Erica inquires. She looks over to Ed. He’d nodded off, spotted blanket tucked under his chin.

“Jim looked you up in the phone book.”

She was glad she met Jim. He had a comforting presence. The way he’d been so keen to defend her made him an instant favorite too. It made her happy to know he hadn’t forgotten her.  
  
Apparently none of them had.

On Roger’s end, there is a minor interruption, as though he was trying to fend someone off.

”Piss off, Brian, I’m clearly on the phone right now” Roger growls, “Why do you need to ring your wife anyway? Finally going to ‘fess up about that girl in Tokyo?”

Erica feels her eyebrows shoot upwards at the awkward hush that follows.

”That’s what I thought.”

The drummer curses loudly, another interrupter making his presence known. “I’ll bring up the dirt on you too, Deacon. Don’t think I won’t” he warns, “I’ve got one of the BBC’s top reporters on the line here.”

 _Top reporters_. Erica snorts. She could dream. Still, Roger’s recommendation was good enough for her.

”Yes I mean Erica” Roger clarifies, his battle for peace raging on, “Try not to look like such a love-struck schoolgirl, yeah?” Erica tries not to overthink the comment. Blessedly, she's distracted before her imagination can run away with her.

Something hits him hard on the head, and before anyone could arrive at the actual point of the call he vanishes, voice gradually fading as he presumably chased Brian and John away. Erica was about to hang up when someone else takes over, once again the unexpected voice of reason.

"Forgive them, darling, they're all imbeciles" Freddie remarks calmly, "Look, Jim thought it'd be rather lovely if we invited you round for tea sometime. He told me how kind you were to him."

"In fact, you were kind to all of us. I can't tell you how refreshing that is. I feel I can trust you. Am I right to do so?"

The question weighs surprisingly heavy on Erica's mind. She contemplates giving a comedic answer, but this wasn't the time. The press had been a real and terrible issue for every member of the band for as long as they'd been in the spotlight, Freddie especially coming under fire for all kinds of imagined mischief. He was right not to lend his trust too freely.

" _Yes_ ," Erica says confidently.

The singer pauses, just as he had done when they first met in the days leading up to Live Aid. In the background, his bandmates scrap with one another. Just as before Erica worried Freddie wouldn't take to her, that he'd shun her and that would be it.

After what felt like an age, Freddie makes his decision. "Very well," he says, smile evident in his voice, "We look forward to having you around."

"Speak to you soon, dear. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Erica wishes him the same and sets the phone back down. The gentle clatter of the receiver wakes Ed with a start. With misty eyes he regards his friend, annoyed at the interruption. "Who was that?"

Sinking back into the dent she'd formed on the couch, Erica smiles to herself. Freddie had placed his trust in her, the other boys too. She was passed feeling star-struck by the group, recognizing after their interview yesterday that they were, in fact, humans like she and Ed. But that didn't mean their approval was worthless to her. Quite the opposite, in fact.

She opens her mouth to reveal her plans to have tea at Freddie and Jim's, but Ed had already drifted off again. A nap seemed like a good idea. It doesn't take long for the idea to manifest. So she floats into a peaceful slumber, no longer aching quite as much.

* * *

It was on an evening after work two weeks later that Erica first visited Freddie's neighborhood.

It was quite the scene change from her own area of London, far greener and dotted with houses bigger than any she'd ever seen. With a splutter her clunky old car stops at the curb, the driver's side door creaking unbearably when she climbs out.

She couldn't help but feel slightly embarrassed about the state of the vehicle, considering where the Mercury's lived. Just peeking out from behind a tall stone wall was a beautiful old mansion, all dark brick and flawlessly polished windows. Good for Freddie. It was quite the palace.

An anonymous secretary buzzes her in, and so Erica begins her trek up a particularly long drive. Garden Lodge had the most beautiful garden, she noticed. Beneath the long branches of one particularly well-maintained tree sat two sunchairs. She could imagine Freddie and Jim lounging in them quite easily, holding hands and saying little as they listened to the birds.

The Freddie who greets her at the front door is rather less sedate. It swings open before she even arrives, and there stands the famous singer, full champagne flute in hand. "Hello, darling!" he cries, spilling a few drops as he opened his arms wide, "Welcome, welcome. Do come in."

Erica didn't question it, still grateful for his trust. She allows herself to be ushered in, trying not to be too overwhelmed by the decadence of the entrance hall.

"Love the suit" he compliments, pressing the champagne into her hand, "Feel free to take your heels off. And leave them somewhere I can see them. I might feel like putting them on later."

Freddie practically dances through the hallway, humming cheerfully to himself. He nods to a closed door to his left. "The others are in there. I think Brian mentioned something about Scrabble" he explains, "Just going to pop to the kitchen for another bottle". He swaggers away, leaving Erica with the slightly anxiety-inducing task of walking into an occupied room.

A last-minute once-over in a nearby mirror was necessary, she decided. She slips off the oversized grey blazer she'd been wearing all day and freshens up her lipstick with a swipe of red. The endless supply of short black curls she'd piled atop her head came tumbling to her shoulders with the removal of a single pin. She feels quite happy with herself until she realizes she's being watched.

"You don't have to put in all that effort for me" Roger pokes, opening the door wide so the entire room could see their guest checking herself out.

Erica regards him with a casual nod of her head. “Well, one of us has to look good, don’t we?” she says, sauntering by with a wink. The drummer grins cheekily.

Large, warm arms envelop her before she can notice any of the others present. “Great to see you again, love” Jim beams, pecking her on the cheek.

It became all the more ridiculous that Freddie and those around him were cast as ‘bitchy’, wicked even. She’d never felt so welcome.

Jumping up from the grand piano he’d been idly tapping away at, Brian approaches next. “I see Fred’s got you on the booze already” he laughs.

Erica takes a sip from the flute. _Damn_ , it was good stuff. The sort that would cost her a week’s wages. ”It’s been a long day” she admits. She’d stick to the single glass. She still had to drive home, after all.

As if coming to torture her, Freddie reappears with another bottle as promised. He’d put her high heels on, oozing sophistication with every step he took around the sitting room. He definitely wore them better than she did.

”What were you playing?” Erica asks.

”Just a little bit from Holst’s Planets” Brian answers, “Enough to escape to the stars for a short while.”

Their guest perches down on the couch seat Jim pats at, still nursing her champagne. “I love stargazing. I sometimes sneak into my local park after hours and watch the sky for a while” she relays.

Brian practically gazes at her. “You’re a woman after an ageing astrophysicist’s heart.”

Roger rolls his eyes. “Don’t get him started. We’ll be here all week” he dismisses, ducking as a cork Freddie released flies past his ear, “Now, are we playing Scrabble or what?”

Jim sets the game up. Freddie starts jumbling the letters up but gets distracted spelling out rude words.

The final member of the group casually strides into the room.

”Sorry that took so long. Got pounced on by one of the cats” says John, throwing himself down onto the opposite sofa. He accepts a sparkling glass from Freddie, perfectly relaxed.

He looked good, kicking back in a comfortable environment with his friends. Confidence suited him. Erica almost feels guilty for distracting him.

”Erica!” He jumps to his feet. “I’m glad you came”. Catching sight of a smirk from Roger he tries to settle down again. Erica ignores him and gives the bassist a friendly kiss on the cheek.

”You don’t have to stand for me. I’m not the Queen” she jokes, ignoring the heat that began to flood to her cheeks.

“What teams shall we be in then?” Freddie questions, gathering everyone together around the Scrabble board. Erica moves over to John’s side to so he can cuddle up to Jim.

Roger throws a brotherly arm around the guitarist’s shoulders. “I’ll be with Brian. He’s knows all the best words” he reasons.

”Jim, sweetheart, I’ll need you to comfort me if I lose” says Fred, dramatically throwing himself around his husband’s neck.

“We’re going to wipe the floor with this lot” Erica declares, leaning closer to her new teammate.

”You write for a living so I’ve got great expectations” John comments. He seemed to relax again, the initial shock of her appearance in an otherwise familiar space wearing off.

Erica wheezes. “You might not be so confident if you saw some of the shite I’ve come up with”. John chuckles lightly into his glass, glorious perm swaying as he did.

He meets her gaze with a twinkle in his eye. “I suppose I’ll have to find out for myself.”

Erica was certain she could have spent the entire evening trying to figure out if his eyes were more grey than green. Alas, the more pressing issue of Scrabble remained, the game having kicked off with a controversial word from Freddie.

”That’s not how you spell _crew_ , Fred” Brian corrects, moving to swipe the letters from the board.

Freddie slaps his hands away. “Of course it is” he insists, “ _C. R. U. E._ ”

Roger spits his champagne out, whipping back a mane of perfect blonde hair with a cackle.

”Like the _band_ ” Freddie adds. Brian let’s his face sink into his hands.

”Honestly, call yourself a genius, darling.”

* * *

One by one Freddie throws his remaining letters across the room. Jim waited until the tantrum was over to scoop them all up. He took the discarded champagne flutes with him. They’d all had enough for one night.

Erica had let Roger finish her glass in the end, too worried about being pulled over on the drive home. She wondered whether it was that extra half that had pushed the drummer to where he was now.

Out like a light across Brian’s lap.

The guitarist reigned supreme during the game, clawing back victory from John and Erica with a word too long to remember. Then again, Erica had found herself fighting their corner on her own towards the end.

John’s wife had called just as the words placed started becoming outrageous. It was all over for the team by the time he returned. Not that he was invested anymore. Unless his expression gave off the wrong idea, his phone call hadn’t been exactly pleasant.

”Everything alright, dear?” Freddie asks, nudging at the bassist’s scowl with his big toe.

”Ronnie’s decided to take the kids to her mum’s for a bit. She reckons she already told me” John grumbles, batting him away impatiently. “Looks like I’ll be getting a taxi home.”

Erica feels her heart sink at the sight of him so solemn. So she jumps at the chance to help him. “I’ll give you a lift.”

His irritated glare softens. “I couldn’t put you to any trouble-“

”Don’t be silly” Erica smiles brightly, hoping it might be just a little bit infectious. It wasn’t her business what occurred between John and his wife, nor did she attempt to make it so, but cheering him up was. They were friends now, after all.

“What sort of car do you drive?” Roger quizzes, the mention of cars enough to rouse him from his inebriated slog.

Freddie hands Erica’s heels back to his guest and leads her and John towards the hallway.

“If you want that car to maintain it’s virtue I’d get it away from here right now.”


	3. She’s an Easy Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Erica get to know one another a little better.
> 
> Meanwhile, at the BBC an exciting opportunity arises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music mentioned:
> 
> Easy Love by Philip Bailey and Phil Collins  
> Everytime You Go Away by Paul Young

Erica sincerely hoped her passenger didn’t have anything important waiting for him at home. She hoped he wasn’t too offended by her foul mouth, too.

London was as busy as ever. Dropping John off had become a rather more laborious task than first thought. Remarkably, his driver didn’t mind. Regardless of how long it took, it’d be worth it.

At least her road rage was an amusing distraction for John. Erica reminded herself routinely that his personal life was no concern of hers, but she couldn’t shake the need to offer him a shoulder to cry on. He clearly needed it.

The radio drowned out her more intrusive thoughts, the bouncy synth-beat of a Philip Bailey collaboration with Phil Collins the perfect mood-booster.

”Y’know, Phil Collins is the reason I can’t drive myself” John pipes up, momentarily snapping out of his melancholy.

Erica lowers the volume. “I suspect this is a story I _need_ to hear.”

John laughs, bowing his head in embarrassment. It was _definitely_ something she needed to hear. 

“In the New Year I thought I’d treat myself to a new car. Something flash. Not very me at all.”

Erica giggles, not so bothered anymore by the erratic driving of the morons around her.

”First time I took it out I went to a Phil Collins gig at Wembley. Afterwards I went backstage for a chat and he offered me a drink” John retells, “Then another. And another.”

“I can see where this is going.”

John cups his cheeks, red in embarrassment. “Next thing I know I’m being pulled over at two in the morning by a policeman.”

Erica stifles a snort with the back of her hand, missing the way her passenger beams at her, proud he make her smile. “How long are you banned for?” she asks.

“A _year_. I sold the car. I’m better off on the Tube.”

She was enjoying getting to know him. He was interesting, and a little silly. And clearly just as capable of mischief as his band mates. She despised a cliché but it felt almost as though they’d known each other for years.

“I bet your wife was amused” she retorts. A laugh doesn’t follow, just a solemn glance downwards and an unbeatable lack of conversation.

 _Shit_. Dodgy territory.

The DJ playing switches records, affording Erica an easy route to salvation. “Paul Young” she mumbles vacantly, turning the volume on her car radio up again, “I like this one.”

The two enjoy _Everytime You Go Away_ , Erica more so than John. Though if she was honest with herself she wouldn’t have sung along quite so loudly if she hadn’t still felt so awkward.

A tiny, entertained grin from John was a comfort at least.

After a particularly vicious verbal spat between Erica and a man who cut her off at a busy junction, conversation resumed.

Before they knew it, the driver’s tired old vehicle was crawling to a stop in front of the Deacon household.

Evening yawned on, the sky having turned a mellow pink. Slapping his thighs, John glances out towards his home.

” _Well_ ” he exhales, making no effort to climb out.

”Everything okay?”

Erica catches his attempts to contort a frown into a more cheerful expression.

”Empty house” John admits, itching nervously at his perm, “Doesn’t feel right.”

The house did look oddly unnerving. A rather grim shadow was cast over the facade, and without any lights visible in its many window the whole place looked disturbingly empty. Or at least, not the cheerful abode of a vibrant young family.

”Suppose I should probably get used to it.”

The remark catches them both by surprise.

”Sorry” John sighs deeply, quickly reaching to unfasten his belt, “I don’t know why I’m troubling you with this.”

Erica reaches out to stop him, gently placing a hand on his wrist. “If you’re comfortable to talk, I’m happy to listen.”

They study one another for a short while, each conducting a last minute check on the other to ensure they were genuine. Just as with the other boys, trust came naturally. Perhaps even _freer_.

“I’m not exactly certain what I want to say” confesses John, relaxing under her touch, “My head’s in such a scramble. Probably the champagne.”

”Then come find me when you’ve got the right words” Erica welcomes. She retracts her hand at the reappearance of anxiety in her mind. “I know you barely know me, and you’ve better people to talk to, but-“

”Y’know, it’s odd. We couldn’t believe it when Fred said you were coming round for a bit” John says, drumming idly at the spot she’d held just moments ago, “A bar or a club, maybe. But his _home_?”

He shakes his head in disbelief.

”I’ve watched him be treated like shit time after time. We all have. It makes you wary, about who to let in and who to shut out. But we welcomed you in without a second’s thought.”

Erica gulps as the monologue continues. Clearly she’d overstepped the mark. So why was he still smiling at her like that? She finds it hard to meet his eyeline at some points during the talk, suddenly very aware of how tiny the car was and how little distance existed between the passenger and driver’s seats.

John doesn’t need to clasp her hand to reassure her as she had him. He simply summons that same sparkle in his eye he’d fixed her with at Freddie’s.

”I’m glad that mate of yours dumped the Live Aid job on you.”

”Me too” Erica replies. She could barely hear Paul Young anymore.

Time slips away too quickly again.

”Well, goodnight” John chirps, countenance totally altered, “Thanks again for the lift.”

”Night.”

He jumps out of the car, shutting the door behind him with a much-appreciated gentility, and bounds up the steps leading to his front porch.

The man on Radio 1 may as well have wittered on in tongues. Quite unexpectedly, Erica finds herself in another realm entirely. Numbly she grapples with the handbrake, an odd sensation in her chest.

” _Oh no_.”

* * *

Erica finds herself torn rudely from her daydreams by the unannounced arrival of her boss.

With thunder trailing in his wake he had burst into the office she shared with Ed and demanded they join the rest of the department in the meeting room down the hall.

Finally returning to the here and now, and not the latest of many post-Freddie car rides she enjoyed with John, Erica leads the way.

Ed salutes their boss with his middle finger while his back is turned. “Would you believe he’s only referred to me by three homophobic slurs so far today” the man observes, “He’s losing his touch.”

”Whats your tally?”

Erica shrugs defeatedly, watching the dreaded Mr Michaels dipping into other offices along the corridor to yell at unsuspecting employees. “I’ve stopped counting”. She thought she caught something about her being Arab when she passed him by the coffee machine.

The new trendy overseers at the BBC that yearned to have more people like Ed and Erica onscreen hadn’t quite gotten round to replacing the old guard yet. Both journalists suspected it was the looming threat of being booted that made Mr Michaels so venomous.

Or, as Ed had once saliently concluded, perhaps he simply _thrived_ on being a cunt.

“What’s _he_ doing here?” Erica curses, catching sight of the bitter-faced person on the opposite side of the conference table.

Matt, her ex-fiancé, usually preoccupied and out of her sight as one of the company’s lawyers.

”Legal wanted to start sending people to monitor meetings. Part of some effort from upstairs to stamp bullying out” Ed informs her, “He’ll have his work cut out.”

Erica could tell by the furious way Matt glowered at her that it was no coincidence he’d ended up in her department. What was his aim? To spy on her? Make her feel uncomfortable? She was determined to not let him succeed regardless.

”Now, we’ve been reviewing the figures and Live Aid’s still proving a big draw” Mr Michaels begins, “The concert’s thrown up a few questions.”

”Where the money’s going, something I seem to remember asking you to write up on, Tetley.”

Ed looks up from where he’d been tapping a steady drumbeat with his pen, bored. “Sorry, sir” he says offhandedly, “It’s just I think Ethiopia might have been the general area.”

Mr Michaels slams a ham-like fist on the table. Miraculously he bites his tongue to stop his more unsavoury names for Ed slipping out. At least Matt’s presence supplied something.

“It’s also rejuvenated certain careers. _Re-inflated egos_ ” their boss yawned on, “Radio 1 want to collaborate on some follow-up work. Spend time with the more successful acts to see how much they’re riding this wave.”

He points a stubby, tobacco-stained finger at each employee gathered near.

”There are some big names in need of follow-ups, Queen being the biggest after that performance.”

Without warning he pauses on Erica. A sinister smirk creeps beneath his moustache. “A little birdie tells me you’ve been conducting your own follow-ups, Salib.”

A muscle in Matt’s face twitches, his grip on his pen visibly tightening. Erica rolls her eyes at the gawks pointed her way. Was she not allowed to make friends that day at the concert?

“If little birdies are telling you things, sir, it might be time to seek out a psychiatrist” she counters.

Jaw clenched, irked by the titter that follows, Michaels struggles to press on. “I struggle to see why, but the toddlers upstairs were rather impressed with your work at the concert” he divulges, “You’re being touted for the Queen job. Our people are already chatting with theirs about joining them for their next recording sessions.”

He darts onto another subject as though she hadn’t had her handiwork acknowledged.

Ed nudges her excitedly. “Queen again. Someone’s smiling on you.”

Whoever they were, they clearly refused to let the band get away from her.


	4. In the Year of '85

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang go stargazing...and have a sing-song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music mentioned:
> 
> '39 by Queen

In a sudden bound of lawlessness, Brian jumped the perimeter fence of his local park.

It was after hours, the city streets of the guitarist’s upscale neighborhood relatively quiet as it’s inhabitants settled down for a cozy night. By contrast, Erica was most uncomfortable. She'd just snagged a particularly tender part of herself trying to climb over. With the gate closed, there was no other option. Well, they could have visited a park that was actually open, but where was the fun in that?

Laying down his coat on the damp grass, Brian immediately directs his attention upwards. "Venus is out in force tonight" he notes, spellbound at a single glance, "Just _look_ at her."

Erica perches next to him, conscious of getting the pajamas she concealed beneath her parka too wet. She retrieves a flask of hot tea from her pocket and serves up two delightfully steaming cups. Once comfortable, she joins her friend in beholding the heavens.

"It was worth breaking the law for" she breathes. They got to enjoy so few clear nights in London, polluted air often hiding the stars from sight. It was easy to feel detached from the rest of the world, (and _beyond_ ) at times. At least now she knew Brian there was always someone to watch the skies with. "If you could escape to any of those stars right now, which would you choose?"

Brian sips at his tea, a thoughtful expression settling on his chiseled features. He points to a particularly bright spot. "That one. What about you?"

"That tiny one there" Erica answers, distinguishing the little star from the rest in an instant. She wonders silently if there is a little green man sitting on that very rock lightyears away, asking one of his alien pals which planet he'd retire to if he could.

“I think I rather like the idea of vanishing into space,” Brian says airily, “Imagine being able to drift amongst all that.”

“Terrifying though” Erica shudders, clutching her tea with cold fingers, "You can't drift off too far, anyway. You've got that new album to record."

Brian arches a brow her way. The way Mr. Michaels had mentioned it, she wasn't aware it was meant to be a secret. The anxiety of overstepping the mark momentarily plagues her again. "My boss said your team was looking into bringing a reporter along to document the process" she answers quickly.

Brian smiles, returning his focus to the stars. "Oh yeah," he realizes, "We're likely heading off to Munich next month to get started."

While he gazes upwards, Erica shifts awkwardly in her place. She didn't care about the damp she was starting to feel seep through her pajamas. Mr. Michaels had told her the omnipresent overlords 'upstairs' at the BBC had headhunted her for the job. Were the band aware? What if they didn't want her on the project?

The guitarist beside her seems to read her mind. "Your name was mentioned" he adds, "We'd be happy to have you onboard, if you're interested that is". Resting his hands behind his head, he smiles sweetly. Brian was a remarkably gentle soul. It was easy to relax around him.

So when Erica gives her response, it's with total ease and not a drop of anxiety. "Count me in."

She relaxes into the grass at his side, the stars above suddenly becoming that much brighter.

They stay like that for a while, every now and then commenting on what they saw or what they'd do if they were given the opportunity to go into space. Inevitably, an interruption arrives, this time in the form of Queen's drummer.

"Don't you two look cozy" Roger pokes, sauntering over with an acoustic guitar in hand, "Here's me thinking Brian was inviting me out on a date."

Brian rolls his eyes. He and Erica spread their coats out to form a comfortable spot for their surprise guest. With a contented sigh, breaths visible in the late-night air, Roger plonks himself down between them. "Guess it'll have to be a threesome."

 _No complaints here_ , Erica muses cheekily.

He gratefully accepts the mug of tea she offers him and regards the heavens to see what all the fuss was about. "Fred and Jim can't come. At the pictures, apparently. They're seeing _St. Elmo's Fire_ for the hundredth time" Roger relays, picking at his guitar as though eager for a sing-song, "And John's having some big talk with the missus."

Erica finds herself transported to the somber chat she'd had with John some weeks ago. The one in which she'd offered him a shoulder to cry on in light of the marital issues he was having. Perhaps she ought to call him later, see if he needed someone to talk to? She dismisses the notion before it can fully manifest. It wasn't her business to pry. If John wanted to talk, he'd contact her.

She sees fit to distract herself. _St Elmo's Fire_? She preferred _The Breakfast Club_ personally. And _Witness_ , the Harrison Ford flick Ed had dragged her along to several times so he could see the actor's face in high-definition.

"What shall we sing, then?" Roger queries, flashing an excited grin at his companions, "I'd suggest an idea I have for the new album, but I think I'll save that for when we're all in Munich". He winks.

Had the band already settled on her coming with them before Brian asked her about it tonight? Erica feels a wave of pride ripple through her.

" _39_ " Brian recommends, nodding towards the glittering skyline, "Feels appropriate."

Roger plays a couple of chords, listening intently for any string in need of re-tuning. Once he's satisfied, he kicks things off with a few confident strums.

Erica could remember exactly when she'd first discovered the song. It'd been the B-side to ' _You're My Best Friend_ ', her favorite song at the time.

"What shall we do for rhythm?" the drummer ponders.

"Brian and I can tap our cups against the flask" she proposes. Brian tests out the sound a few times, cheeks rosy red from excitement. Yet again the evening had taken a turn but in an impossibly wonderful direction. "Just like being back in college, this" Roger observes with a snort, "Perhaps we should mix the lyrics up too."

A chill darts down Erica's spine, more to do with the music than the wind blowing through the park. She tries her best to follow the steady rhythm Brian taps into the flask and lets her eyes flutter shut as Roger begins to sing sweetly.

_In the year of '85,_

_Assembled here three fools,_

_In a park we probably shouldn't be in_

_Our souls sailed out into the dark and starry night,_

_Strangest sight ever seen_

Erica knew her musical talents were few, certainly in comparison to present company, so wracks her brain on how else to adapt the lyrics. 

_And the night followed day,_

_And the papers all say,_

_That the three fools sat inside,_

_Got done for trespassing,_

_And were promptly sent to jail,_

_They looked back, and they feared, and they cried_

The boys chuckle out into the dark expanses of the park, casting their approval to her with quick glances. They all joined together for the chorus, their voices blending nicely despite the spontaneity of it all.

_Don't you hear my call,_

_Though you're many years away,_

_Don't you hear me calling you_

Roger sings something off the cuff, his control of the guitar masterful.

_Send your complaints to the Beeb,_

_For the day I give a toss,_

_In the land that our grandchildren will probably be priced out of_

He has to strum double quick to compensate for his last line, but he amuses his friends regardless. Indeed, they all join in to sing the newly-changed chorus triumphantly.

_Send your complaints to the Beeb,_

_For the day I give a toss,_

_In the land that our grandchildren will probably be priced out of_

* * *

Despite the poor weather and late hour Brian and Roger decide to stay in the park for a while longer, happily strumming and singing to themselves with no one but the stars to hear. Erica, already conscious of the way the night nipped at her through her pajamas, cheerfully made her goodbyes and scaled the outer fence again, this time careful not to damage herself.

Someone's taxi pulls away from the curb the moment she sets her feet on the sidewalk though she doesn't notice. Through the bars, she watches her two friends croon into the shadows. Munich would be abound with moments like that, she hoped.

Buoyed by an interesting evening, her belly full of tea, she decides to head home. And finds someone waiting by her car for her when she turns around. 

Beneath the dim light of an overhanging streetlamp, she can just make out a pair of sorrowful eyes, the silhouette his head cast made huge by the masses of curls piled upon it.

"John?" she wonders, taking a step nearer.

The bassist steps forward, features gradually becoming more distinguishable the closer he got. He wore his usual combination of jeans and a half-buttoned shirt, but with a sensible coat like hers thrown over the top. It's his eyes that appear most different. They're darker in color, glossed over by such emotion that Erica can't quite figure out how he's feeling. Beneath them, she's sure she spots some puffiness, and a redness spiraling from his irises. He'd been crying. Her heart sinks involuntarily.

She reaches keenly for the first comfort she can offer him. "The boys are just in there. The fence isn't as difficult to climb as it looks" she offers, "It'll be worth it, for the company."

" _Probably_ " John admits, face to face with her now, "But they look too happy for me to depress them". Erica was sure that wasn't true, but she doesn't argue. John's expression is too serious for that, his pain too evident.

"So what do you want?" She didn't mean for the question to sound so confrontational, feeling several inches smaller when the bassist flinches. To her relief, though, he doesn't back away. His lip quivers, but he keeps a steady tone.

"You said I should come find you once I found the right words," says John, "I think I've found them."

* * *

Erica could scarcely keep track of the situation. One moment she'd been listening to him pour his heart out, the next she was pressed against her living room wall with John everywhere at once.

" _God_ , I want you". The words were mouthed into her neck between hot breaths. Entirely lost in him, she fumbled behind her for the door handle of her bedroom. Not that she minded where they ended up. He could bend her over the kitchen sink for all she cared.

"This is mad" she panted, trying unsuccessfully to get the door open. Alarm bells rang deafeningly in her head, but one by one she tuned them out. It was wrong, oh _definitely_ wrong, yet so right. "This isn't real."

"Then let it be a fantasy" the man voiced huskily, one hand curling about her throat, the other gliding lower, and lower, and lower.

_**Beep. Beep. Beep.** _

Erica shot up from her pillow like a bolt. She takes several seconds to regain her breath, a slightly trembling hand turning off the shrieking alarm clock on her bedside table. It takes another few seconds before she registers the events of her dream. _Fuck_. It was ridiculous, truly it was. Especially considering the subject of it was likely still next door, fast asleep on her couch where she'd left him, still caught up on thoughts of his wife.

John had stayed at her place.

The only reason he'd conked out on the couch was that he was so drained. He and Erica had chatted for an hour or two after they left Kensington Gardens. He'd cried again, and she had been ready with tissues and fresh mugs of tea to calm him. Things weren't at all content at home, she learned. His wife had announced her intentions to separate from him. "Not forever" John had said, "But for a while, to give each other a _breather_ ". Erica wasn't sure when exactly she'd been appointed the band's marriage counselor, but she didn't feel exactly inconvenienced by the position. That was, of course, until her _dream_.

Why couldn't she have just dreamed about Demi Moore as normal?

Blocking out the sensation wavering at her core, she decides to focus on her day. She has a quick shower, singing whatever song sprang to mind as she washed her sins away, and gets ready for work. She hesitates before she reenters the sitting room. _Grow up_ , she snaps at herself. Christ, she'd had a dream about _Ed_ when she first met him. She was too old to be getting embarrassed about such things. _It's normal and healthy_ , she repeats to herself as she creeps into the adjacent room, _you're just being childish_.

"Morning". The sprightly and much-renewed voice of Queen's bassist catches her by surprise. She'd expected him to still be asleep, or perhaps to have left by now, but instead, she finds him leaning against the kitchen counter, mug of tea in hand. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snoop through your cupboards" he utters apologetically, a pink tinge glowing on his cheeks, "I was dying to have one before my taxi gets here". Erica smiles to show she wasn't fussed. His shirt was creased from sleeping on the couch all night, and his already chaotic head of hair stuck up in various directions.

"I want to apologize for falling asleep here too" John adds, shifting from foot to foot awkwardly, "I was so worn out by everything and, well, to be honest, I didn't want to be on my own last night."

"No need to apologize. I'm only sorry I couldn't offer you a more comfortable place to sleep" Erica says, desperate for a cup of tea herself but wanting to keep a distance between her and John for the time being, "You're welcome to my tea, and you're welcome to my company."

"Thanks. _Really_ , thank you" he says, finding the courage to look her in the eye. His anxiety subsides and he searches for comedy in the situation. "Bet you didn't think you'd end up finding me nicking your tea bags when you took that Live Aid job, huh?"

" _Yeah_ " Erica agrees, trying to not disclose just how much the thought made her head spin.

Neither could explain why, but the situation felt slightly _weird_. They both search frantically for a distraction.

"You've got quite an impressive record collection" John notes, gesturing towards the gigantic case of vinyl Erica stored beneath her record player. It was all she'd spent her pocket money on as a child. She'd amassed a number of gems over the years. _Led Zeppelin_ , _Jefferson Airplane_ , _Fleetwood Mac_. It was all there.

"You've got all of _our_ albums I see," John says, lips tilting upwards cockily.

She did. Most of the band's singles too. Suddenly quite keen for air, Erica wrestles with the top buttons of her blouse. Did she look obsessive? She definitely wasn't. Not anymore, anyway. " _Oh_ ," she hears herself mumble, embarrassed.

For a second, John looks quite red in the face too. He shrugs the sensation off with an uncharacteristically superior expression. "Don't worry about it" he shrugs, "If we ran away from everyone who liked the band, we wouldn't have many friends left."

Erica quirks an eyebrow. "I'm not sure smugness suits you, Deacon". Damn it if he wasn't right though. _Cheeky sod_.

"Probably not" John grins, moving away from the kitchen to glance out of the window, checking the street below for the arrival of his taxi, "Reckon I'll stick to my mysterious, shy charm instead". Erica has to bite her lip. _Cheeky, cheeky sod._ "Out out interest, which is your favorite?"

"The Game. Amazing song after amazing song. It came out in my first year of uni. Got me through a lot of exam stress, actually."

The kettle gives a satisfying _click_ as it reaches boiling point.

"Plus, you all look so _cool_."

Erica thinks back to when she'd spotted the cover in some London record store in 1980, the band in leather biker gear, staring out fiercely at her.

"Even _Brian_?"

"Especially Brian."

The John on that album cover was quite different to the current John. He was five years younger on it, somehow even thinner and sporting the shortest hair cut he'd ever had. "You like the short hair, then?" he ponders aloud. He runs a hand through his perm self-consciously.

"It's nice" Erica nods, sighing in relief at the warm feeling of tea gliding down her throat, "But then again so is the thing you've got going on at the moment."

"Freddie told me you thought it looked like a mushroom."

"I like mushrooms."

Erica tries not to choke on her tea. At least they were having a nice time. There was no awkwardness or small talk, something she'd feared there might be after the severity of the conversation they'd had last night. Given the light in his eyes, Erica would be forgiven for thinking he'd forgotten all about it. Their contented chuckles die away with the honking of a car horn outside. John glances at the street once more. "Taxi's here," he says, retrieving his jacket, "Well, thanks again". There's a moment's hesitation as both consider how exactly to say goodbye. It didn't feel right just walking out, to either of them.

Discomfort finally threatening the mood, Erica decides to move quickly, setting her mug aside and opening the door for him. A quick peck on the cheek seemed like a reasonable goodbye gesture. She sends a silent prayer to all deities she could think of when John doesn't recoil. "Shit" she cringes, realizing she'd left a red lipstick stain on his cheek. For someone with media training, she was doing a poor job of making his exit a smooth one.

"Not to worry. It'll rub off" John beams, wiping at the mark with a licked thumb, "See you soon. Have a good day!". Then he's off down the corridor, hands stuffed in his pockets. _Please don't let there be any press lurking around on his route home_ , she thinks. The wicked smirks of her bosses flash in her mind. She steadies herself with another long gulp of tea and checks her watch. She'd have to be off soon.

She finds herself drawn to the window overlooking the street as she finishes her drink. She peers around her blinds and checks to see if John had made it to his taxi yet. Would he glance up at the window, so she could wave him off? Probably. Yet within seconds of the thought disappearing, there he is at the curb, looking right at her and giving her a small wave.

She would have waved back had she not spotted a second car waiting on the other side of the road, the window on its driver's side rolled down just enough to reveal the long lens of a camera.

Oh, _shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all feedback is appreciated!


	5. Blue Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erica and the band celebrate their impending trip to Munich with a little party, and Fred takes his new friend out clubbing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music mentioned:
> 
> Name of the Game by ABBA  
> Rio by Duran Duran  
> Blue Monday by New Order  
> Gloria by Laura Branigan  
> True by Spandau Ballet

After Live Aid, Erica had feared she'd be stuck with the mundane assignments of old again. That she'd have her one and only moment of success that sunny afternoon in July 1985. Ed had similar fears. He'd turned down the presenting role that day, and many other opportunities with it potentially.

Yet one month on, both found themselves frantically packing for a job the senior members of the Radio 1 department would commit homicide for. "We're getting paid to go to Germany and hang out with one of the best bands on the planet for two months" Ed had summarized.

At the band's behest, final confirmation of Erica's part in the project had come earlier in the month. Travel and accommodation covered, the full support of the editing team back in London when needed, and whatever kit she had room for. And a trusty sidekick too, naturally.

"I'd like to take Ed with me, please" she'd insisted.

Her way of paying him back for giving her the Live Aid gig in the first place. 

Somehow, in the madness that seemed to grow the closer their departure date got, a tea party had ended up being suggested. A way for the band and their new tag-alongs to chat and relax before the chaos of recording started. And a chance for Ed to actually meet the other boys.

If he was nervous, he hid it well. He made Erica feel rather a fool for the way she'd frozen when she first saw them in the flesh.

"I swear, Tetley, if you've tampered with those scones" she warns, watching her friend set a plate of freshly-baked scones on her coffee table. She'd had one too many bad experiences with his baking. The most prevalent among them the time he'd served weed-infused brownies to one of their professors at university.

Ed taps nonchalantly at the side of his nose. "My mum's recipe," he says, "Nothing but the usual ingredients and a spoonful of Northern charm inside."

While he retrieves the strawberries and cream they'd prepared, Erica studies the newspaper nearby. She'd poured over it, searching every inch of every page. She'd checked every rag she'd been able to get her hands on at work. In none of them, she could find photos of John climbing into his taxi outside her flat. She'd questioned at first whether she'd imagined the camera. Who would want to _spy_ on him? And how had they followed him to her flat?

"You'd better not be panicking about that cameraman again" Ed sighs, recognizing the anguish tainting her features, "Rockstars are remarkably easy to track. No one's going to _suggest_ anything from it."

"He had a massive lipstick mark on his cheek."

"Again, _rockstar_."

**Knock. Knock.**

"Guess you don't have any time to worry about it."

Before Erica can protest, Ed is gliding towards the front door Her fears about the camera subside, instantly replaced by the embarrassment of how minute her flat was.

The whole band had promised to come, Freddie assuring her he'd bring Jim too. Even Roger's wife Dominique had said she'd drop by if she could. Ignoring the tentative way his friend gauges the smallness of her sitting room, Ed pulls her into a warm embrace. "It'll be _fun_ ". Going by the shenanigans that usually occurred at Freddie's, her little gathering had no business being anything other than _fun_.

With a confident stride forward, bearing a warm toothy grin, Freddie enters, Jim at his heel. "Lovely to see you, darling," the singer said, banishing her anxieties to the shadows with a soft hug and a kiss on the cheek, "Oh, I was so excited when you rang. Wasn't I Jim, love? I love tea parties."

"I do like the pattern of those curtains" Freddie compliments, wholeheartedly impressed with the immaculate state of the place, "You'll have to let me know where you got them". Jim smiles at his partner's enthusiasm and gently hands a cardboard box over to Erica.

"Freddie felt bad about not contributing anything, so he insisted we bring some of our teacups and saucers," he says, following her into the kitchen area of the front room, "Nice scones". Erica thanks him and nods to Ed, who repeats his _Northern_ charm line.

"Fred, Jim, this is Ed Tetley. My oldest friend" Erica beams

She giggles when Freddie embraces him too. Ed keeps his cool, but there was an undeniable glimmer of awe in his eye when it sank in who was cuddling him. "It's a pleasure to meet you both" Ed voices. Freddie releases him so he can shake Jim's hand.

"Make yourself at home" Erica coos, shooing the three towards the sofa, "I'll pop the kettle on."

While the kettle whistles, the trio talking up a storm in the background, Erica considers how severe of a hissy fit she'd be facing if she dropped any of Freddie's lovely teacups. She very nearly finds out when someone else bangs on the front door.

The rest of the band arrive. Roger does indeed bring his wife with him, a strikingly beautiful and petite woman Erica recognized from magazines. Ever sure of himself, the drummer reaches over to swipe a newly baked scone on his path towards the couch. But finds his hand slapped away by Ed.

"What do you mean in denying a man his right to a scone?" Roger exclaims cheekily.

"Your calloused little fingers are welcome to anything other than this plate" Ed corrects, mischief on his mind, "I'm taking these ones home with me."

The scone thief glances over his shoulder to check his wife doesn't linger within earshot. "Guess I'll have to find something else to keep them busy, then". Erica doesn't miss the wink he aims at her friend, nor the way Ed practically swoons onto the kitchen floor.

" _Can't take him anywhere_ " Brian mumbles.

Erica is in the process of pouring tea into Jim and Freddie's lovely teacups when she hears the rest of the band rise to greet John. "My, my" she hears Freddie purr, "Don't you look dashing."

"Suits you, mate" Jim agrees.

"I don't think amping up the sexiness is going to make your wife stay, love" Roger jests.

"Ignore him, John" Brian says pensively, "I usually do."

"He knows I'm joking. You look good, Deaky, _really_."

 _What on Earth are they all on about?_ Erica wonders. Happy with the amount poured into each teacup she turns around to greet her most recent guest. John sits in between Jim and Ed. The lipstick stain she'd left on his cheek was long gone, but still, her mind drifted to where it had been. How it had felt to give him that little peck, regardless of the photographer outside. The memory seems important until she notices a much bigger change.

"Your hair!" she cries.

John runs a hand through his freshly chopped locks. He still retained much of his curls, but they were cropped close to his head now. Shorter, almost as short as it was on the _Game_ album cover she loved so much.

"Doesn't John look handsome, Erica?" Ed pipes up, smirking from ear to ear.

"It's lovely" she agrees, "Sorry, it just caught me by surprise". John seems content with that, returning to whatever conversation he was having with her colleague. She mulls over the haircut as she removes the teabags from each cup. _He does look handsome_. _More so than he did already_.

A tray carrying the tea is set gently on the coffee table. "Here we are," she says, inviting her friends to dig in, "The finest afternoon tea two twenty-three-year-olds' salaries will allow". Roger is quick to claim a scone, being sure to wave it at Ed. Dominique tuts at him when he claims the biggest strawberry too.

"I must say," Freddie says, sipping on his tea demurely, "I'm _so_ excited you're both coming with us to Munich."

"You might be able to help us out with the records" John points out, topping his scone with a healthy amount of cream.

Erica chokes on her own scone. " _Help_ seems generous. _Impishly pester_ , maybe."

Again the bassist trains a gleaming look her way. She still couldn't quite tell what color his eyes were.

"Might spare us an argument, darling" Freddie notes, always kind.

"And therefore spare me a headache" Jim agrees. Freddie knocks him on the arm lightly, swiftly swooping in to kiss him when his partner feigns injury.

The other boys had made it clear how toxic previous company of Freddie's had been. There had been people around the band for several years who claimed to be allies but were actually the opposite. It warmed her heart to think he had someone like Jim in his life.

She assumed it happiness like Fred and Jim's that Ed dreamed of when he gazed toward the pair. In between the bizarre stares he and Roger exchanged, that is.

"So what sort of album will it be?" Erica asks, neatly assembling her own scone, "I really loved the direction you took with _The Works_."

"We're certainly not taking the disco route again" Brian utters, shooting a glance at the bass-player.

"It _wasn't_ disco" John insists, "Well, not _entirely"._ Erica giggles.

Ed mouthes _'kiss ass'_ to her and taps the bassist on the knee. "I liked Hot Space. It got played a lot at all the gay clubs."

"See" John nods to Brian, " _Some_ people have good taste."

Freddie ignores the two and implores his hosts with excited eyes. "Oh, dears, we must all go clubbing together before we set off to Munich. Wouldn't that be fun, Jim?" The Irishman nods, though Erica reckoned he'd probably have preferred a quiet night in.

"We're laying off the big anthems on this one," Roger says, steering the conversation on track again, "Though we have got some belters in the can. Some new sounds too."

Erica peers at him over her teacup. "All sounds very mysterious."

"Yes," the drummer nods, "A _kind of magic_ , you might say."

The unified eye rolls that are aimed at him by the rest of the band tell her it was a cheesy reference of some kind. She didn't mind. She and Ed would get to see that magic, _whatever it was_ , soon enough.

"I feel a dance coming on now," Freddie says, jumping to his feet nimbly, "And I must work off those scones somehow."

"Pop a record on, Brian" Erica beams, nodding to the case of vinyl resting behind him, "Whatever you'd like". The guitarist dives in quicker than anything, simply giving her the thumbs up, his mouth full of strawberries.

"Partner up, everyone!" Freddie says, pulling Jim up with him. The two stepped over to the vacant space between the couches and the kitchen, adopting a mock foxtrot position. There is the scratch of a needle as a record begins to play. Everyone turns to stare at Brian when the opening bars of an ABBA song sound out around the room. " _Disco_?" John quips, hand finding his hip sassily.

"I didn't say I hated _all_ of it" Brian blushes.

"So many handsome men to choose from" Roger sighs, throwing a hand over his forehead dramatically, "You look like a smooth mover, Ed. Come sweep me off your feet won't you?" Ed doesn't need asking twice, twirling the older man gracefully towards the makeshift dancefloor quicker than anything.

Dominique chuckles at her husband and leans towards Erica. "Let's show them up" she urges.

"Sounds like my sort of challenge" Erica agrees, leading her partner towards the others.

John shimmies over to Brian, the room bursting into hysterics when he gently lower's the taller man's hands over his waist. "Come on, you big tree," he says, "Show me a good time". Before long, the two are tripping over each other between wobbly twirls and dips, tears streaming down their faces they're laughing so hard.

Roger and Ed, and Erica and Dominique compete from opposite sides of the room. Whenever one tried to execute a new move, the other would copy, with varying degrees of success. Roger almost ends up flinging his partner over the kitchen counter at one point, trying to mimic the way Erica had gracefully swung the other woman around moments previously.

"That skirt of yours looks splendid twirling like that, Dominique. Erica, you don't mind if I steal your girl for a dance or two, do you?" Freddie says from where he sways with Jim. Both women nod, fearing the consequences should Roger and Ed attempt any more of their moves. "Alright, everyone" Freddie calls to his friends, "Switch."

A mad scramble follows as everyone changes partners.

Freddie and Dominique prove to be a powerful match as soon as their hands meet, the gentle dance the former had enjoyed with his boyfriend transitioning into a mock, over-dramatic tango. Ed seizes his chance to dance with Brian. Be gentle with me" he winks, "It's my first time". Roger and Jim gravitate towards one another as their previous partners abandon them.

Before Erica can process her own lack of a partner, a hand glides into her own. She's spun quickly, the sitting room a blur of color, the black curls piled on her head dangling over her eyes. The turn is eased into a gentle two-step, giving her time to blow away the curtain covering her face. "There you are" John wheezes, still breathless from his time with Brian.

"I think I need a haircut" Erica giggles, his gap-toothed smile infectious, "I'm tired of this bird's nest."

"I like it."

"I said the same thing to you not so long ago, and here you are with a new do."

The record skips to its next song. _The Name of the Game_. It was a record her ex-fiance had bought her years ago, but one she'd loved too much to get rid of. A photo of her and Ed had proved an effective way of covering up the sweet message Matt had written for her on the sleeve.

_I've seen you twice_  
_In a short time_  
_Only a week since we started_

"Come on, John" Freddie words, "You two versus us two. I want Dominique to continue her conquest of the sitting room". He doesn't wait for a reply, nor does his partner. Dominique jumps into the singer's arms and lets him swing her round, her arms stretched out gracefully. "Not fair" Erica murmurs to her own partner, "He's trained with the _Royal Ballet_."

_It seems to be  
For every time  
I'm getting more open-hearted_

John hovers a hand over her waist, asking for permission. Erica nods in approval. She knew she couldn't compete with Freddie and Dominique, but she was having too much fun to not try. Her partner pulls her flush, feet seemingly stepping in all directions. Erica did her best to keep up, not entirely oblivious to their closeness.

_What's the name of the game?_  
_Does it mean anything to you?_

John's steps are styled out despite Erica's confusion, a feeling only intensified when she finds herself spun out again in one great flourish. Just as she thinks she's going to fall from his grip, he dips her down. The speed of it catches Ed's attention, Erica noticing how he gawks at her while her head hovers centimeters from the floor. _Please don't drop me_ , she repeats in a fearful mantra, _please don't fucking well drop me_.

_What's the name of the game?_  
_Can you feel it the way I do?_

Inadvertently John's hand slips to her behind, the shock of it almost making him lose grip entirely. The mantra recycles in a jumbled mess now. _Please don't drop me, please don't drop me_. Just as she's sure her head is going to hit the floor, John recovers, yanking her up rather more clumsily than he intended, cheeks glowing.

Erica thought it a shame he'd moved his hand.

"Sorry," John says quietly, though the grin plastered on his face tells Erica he isn't sorry at all.

"Cheeky prat."

_If I trust in you,_  
_Would you let me down?_

The song enters its final chorus before either of them knows it. "You-hoo!" Freddie beckons, "I think we'll have to disqualify you for almost dropping your partner, John". The slightly exhausted look on Dominique's face makes Erica think they might be switching partners again before too long.

Brian would be a nice partner, she decides, and he'd probably be grateful for a calmer time of it after dancing with Ed. Roger would be fun, though she didn't fancy being flung over any counters. Jim would be lovely, too. She didn't think she'd be able to keep up with Freddie or Ed.

_Would you laugh at me,_  
_If I said I cared for you?_

Unsure what lay in store for her when the singer ultimately ordered them to rearrange themselves, Erica resolves to enjoy her current embrace. John had returned to a much slower style now, one that sent a funny jolt directly to her stomach. Unless it was just Ed's scones.

_Would you feel the same way too?_  
_I wanna know_  
_Oh yes I wanna know_

"Look at this" Erica snorts, bemused as ever by her adventures with the boys. They were at a tea party that had morphed into a very amateur ballroom competition, with only ABBA for a soundtrack. "Who's dreaming, you or me?"

"Who says anyone's dreaming?" John points out, as warmed by the scene as she was. Everyone was having an outrageous amount of fun, and it meant the world to him.

"I've just seen my best friend attempt to perform a lift with Brian May" she cackled into his shoulder, the memory of the two men falling onto one another stored safely away in her mind for a sad day, "This isn't real."

_I think I can see in your face,_  
_That it means a lot_

"Then let it be a fantasy" John speaks in an undertone.

Still Erica detested a cliche, but she was sure the rest of the room fades away for a second. That she can hear every breath her partner makes. A strange mist befalls John's sight, something verging on wistful that assures Erica he's on another planet too, and she's not just gawping vacantly at him.

"Wakey, wakey, you two". Roger's voice draws the pair back into the room. "Didn't give her concussion when you dropped her did you, John? Poor thing looks totally out of it". The needle on the record player scratches again, and an entirely new kind of tune begins.

"This is more like it" Roger cheers, slapping his bandmate on the arm, humming along to _Rio_ by Duran Duran, "Come on, love. I promise I won't do you any internal damage". She doesn't mind changing partners again. Indeed, in a bizarre way, she finds herself relieved. The fluttering was gone, now turning to nausea as Roger shakes her about enthusiastically. John doesn't look for a new partner. Perhaps he missed the disco.

Or wherever it was that dancing with Erica had transported him.

"Oi, John" Brian calls out across the room, "Come help me with the tea, will you? I think we'll need a pot each by the looks of things."

John nibbles on one of the few scones left, a hefty weight of complex thoughts and feelings suddenly making its presence known on his shoulders. "Yeah, just a minute."

* * *

There were few people better to party with than Freddie Mercury. Erica had always suspected it to be true, but now she had proof. It was only the other day that he'd tangoed across her sitting room carpet, and now she found him pirouetting on the table they'd reserved. It had been her turn to buy the next round of drinks, and when she'd left for the bar everything seemed fairly normal. "Are you excited?" Ed asks, downing a shot of vodka without even flinching.

"Oddly enough, Ed, my answer is exactly the same as the other forty-three times you asked that question," she says, " _Yes_."

There had been a delay or two in preparing for the trip, but it seemed the band was finally ready to head to Munich. Mr Michaels had got cold feet about the project at the last minute, as though only just realizing that Erica and Ed were juniors barely two years out of university. However a sharp word with the ever-present 'lads upstairs' made him cut his doubts short. Their plane left in the morning.

"Erica, darling, come dance on the table with me" Freddie encourages. Erica appeals to Jim, who'd sat quietly sipping on a gin and tonic for most of the evening, with exasperated eyes. The man simply shrugs. The club they were in certainly revealed that Fred and Ed were cut from the same cloth. Both revelled in such environments, feeling as free as they could possibly be, but never ditched the people they came with.

It was a relatively popular gay club that Freddie had taken them to, neither expensive or exclusive. It was a quality of the man Erica particularly admired. For all the grandiosity and pomp of his stage presence, he was, in fact, a very humble and generous man. She counted herself lucky that she got to see that side of him. Not that she still wouldn't slap his hands away if he tried to pull her onto the table again.

"A mate of mine once told me that drunk adults are rather like toddlers," Jim tells her, having to shout above the pounding sound of New Order's _Blue Monday_. Erica observes their fellow clubbers. Freddie never lost his grace. Indeed, she was quite sure he was surer on his feet after a drink than he was sober. The same could not be said for Ed. He'd kept to sitting down because whenever he got up to rejoin the people crowding the dance floor he invariably ended up on his face. Erica had worried he'd be kicked out for causing a scene, and so told him to stay put and drink some water until he came to.

"Oh, Erica, you look far too lovely to be hiding there" Freddie insists, taking her by the wrists and pulling her up onto the tabletop with surprising strength, "It's fun up here". Most of the other patrons are too busy enjoying themselves to notice the two towering above the dance floor. "The haircut suits you, you know" the singer compliments, brushing a now shoulder-length black curl behind her ear, "I didn't know you'd wanted it shorter."

"Just a spur of the moment thing I suppose" Erica shrugs. As Freddie began to dance around again, she finds herself overwhelmingly grateful for the table's width. It didn't seem the safest spot to stand while wearing heels. She also worried the dancers below would be able to glance up the short black dress she wore. _An Egyptian Goddess_ , Freddie had called her when she stepped into the club. That was something else she loved about Freddie. He made her feel confident in her skin. The naysayers who decried her as a 'foreigner' didn't seem so loud when she had him at her side.

Of course, the moment had been made silly by Ed's attempt to walk like a pharaoh.

"I feel like giving a speech" Freddie breathes, gesturing grandly to he hordes crammed onto the dancefloor. Before either Erica or Jim can warn him against it, he's stamping his foot on the table, demanding everyone to turn to him. Most do, their eyes shooting open widely despite their varying states of drunkenness. Even the DJ turns down his music so he can hear the king's address. "Lovies" he entreats, casting his leather jacket over his shoulder like a cloak.

"I am Freddie fucking Mercury," he says, to rapturous applause and cheers, "And I love my husband."

The other patrons erupt into cheers, raising their glasses in a toast. Ed clumsily tries to tap his glass against Erica's, but in failing to do pats her awkwardly on the ankle instead. Freddie dives dramatically off the table, landing safely in the arms of a slightly panicked Jim. "Oh my _God_ " the Irishman blushes, hiding his face in his partner's neck. Erica suddenly finds herself alone on the table. _Fuck it_ , she thinks, crouching down to retrieve one of the shots she'd bought during the last round. She downs it in one, wincing at the way it burned her throat, using the empty glass as an instrument as the DJ switches LPs again.

 _Gloria by Laura Branigan_. A favorite of hers from the discos she'd gone to during her time as a student. She lets herself dance to it for a little while. She'd have a lot of work to do once she got to Munich. It would be fun, of course, but she kept having to remind herself that it _was_ work. It was a miracle she and Ed were being trusted with the job at all. She'd already promised herself a thousand times she wouldn't mess it up.

"I need cuddle" Ed simpers from behind her. Erica rolls her eyes and begins her careful climb down from the tabletop. She notices another girl staring at her as she settles back in her seat, buxom and curvy with bronze skin like hers. Erica aims a thoughtless wink in her direction and pulls her friend into a tight embrace. "What's up, Eddie?" she coos.

"Do you think I'll ever find true love?" he murmurs drunkenly, casting sad eyes at where Jim and Freddie huddle up together, not saying or doing much, just content to be with each other.

"What about Craig?"

"All he does lately is work" Ed speaks darkly, sipping at a glass of wine, "What's more important, me or the gossip desk at MTV?" He blows a particularly loud raspberry, slumping against his friend's chest in defeat. "You are" Erica comforts, trying not to giggle at his intoxicated state. She leaves Ed to sulk into her boobs for a while.

"What sort of thing are they working on at the moment, the gossip desk?" she asks innocently, "Anything about any-" She clears her throat " _Bassists_?"

"Are you really doing this _again_?" Ed scoffs, "No one's sniffing 'round whatever you and John have got going on."

"There isn't anything going on."

"If that was true you wouldn't get so antsy about it all."

 _"Bubbly, darlings!"_ Freddie practically screams, flourishing his arms fluidly as a kind bartender approaches with a gift of two champagne bottles. Jim uncorks one of them, gently dislodging the cork and pouring himself a glass carefully. Freddie leaps onto the table again, practically tearing the cork out of the other bottle, and showering the revelers below in white foam. They scream in delight.

"To a fantastic time in Munich!" he grins, settling down again beside Jim, raising a glass aloft, "And to a bloody good album!"

Thoughts consumed by no one in particular, Ed now drifting off into her side, Erica sips her champagne. The DJ switches the track to _True_ by Spandau Ballet, the lights around the club dimming as a much more intimate atmosphere takes hold. It's then she spots that girl again, still looking, still gorgeous. _Fuck it_.

Erica downs what remains of her drink and shares an approving look with Freddie, then heads out across the dance floor.

* * *

"Ow". Erica's first sensation of the day is pain. The dull, throbbing kind, partly in her feet but mainly in her head. She sits up slowly, then shivers when she realizes she's wearing nothing but an old t-shirt. The collar of it catches on something sore on her neck. She stumbles over to her bedroom mirror and inspects the skin there. _Great_ , she thinks, _a hickey_.

A clattering in her bathroom catches her attention. The girl was still here. Erica hadn't found herself in a situation like this since university. In those days, she'd have dived into bed again and pretended to be sleeping. In fact, the duvet did look particularly inviting now that she'd wriggled out of it, a warm and safe haven for her to hide away from the morning sun until the coast was clear. The bathroom door opens before she can action the plan, and out from a billowing of steam emerges the same girl who'd she'd met eyes with across the club.

"Morning" she greets, tieing her wet hair into a plait, "Hangovers don't look too bad on you". Erica tries to respond but all she can manage is a hoarse grunt. The girl chuckles lightly, checking herself in the mirror before taking up the jacket that had been thrown onto the floor the previous night. "I brewed you some coffee," she says, "Oh, and I used the last of your bread to make toast so I popped out and got you some more. And a newspaper, too. You kept mumbling about it on the taxi ride here."

"Thanks" Erica nods sleepily, "That's very kind of you". She resented that she couldn't remember much about the girl, any interests she might have talked about or what brought her to the club that night. She could remember other details. Like the way the girl had slid into her lap on the backseat of the taxi they'd shared, the way her soft brown skin melted into her slightly lighter tone, the scratch of long nails on her back as Erica peppered kisses down her body, the way they'd fervently whispered to each other what they'd wanted and how they'd wanted it.

"Thanks for _this_ " the girl grins, tapping on the large purple mark printed over her collarbone, "Sure feels like you've bruised me in places, too. Not that I'm complaining". She winks, resting her jacket over her shoulders casually. "Well, I've got to bounce. _Work_ " she sighs, blowing a kiss in Erica's direction, "Maybe I'll see you around when you get back from Munich?" _Oh yeah, Munich_. Erica casts a worried glance at her alarm clock. She still had time to get ready. _Christ,_ she hadn't even packed yet and she was going to be gone for goodness knows how long.

"My name's Debbie, by the way," the girl smiles, retrieving her bag from the corner it had hastily been chucked into and heading for the door.

"I know, I remember."

"Oh really? I'm pretty sure you called me Joan at one point last night."

_Who the fuck's Joan?_

"Maybe Joan can join us next time?" Debbie ponders cheekily, "See you, Erica". And then she's gone, leaving Erica to her headache and her confusion.

She didn't regret it, she decided over her coffee and toast. She'd showered quickly, finding more love bites along the way. _Definitely don't regret it_. The bread Debbie had fetched was gorgeous, much better than the sawdust she usually bought. And a paper too. It was a nice gesture, especially since Erica had apparently been rambling about it.

A quick flick to the second page lets her know Ed had, unfortunately, been wrong. Someone was sniffing around her and John.

The headline hits her harder than her hangover did, set in bold black letters beneath a blown-up image of John climbing in his taxi, clearly wearing the same clothes as the night before. And with a red lipstick mark on his cheek. For all the nation to see.

_**'CRAZY LITTLE THING CALLED LUST! QUEEN'S FAMILY MAN SPOTTED LEAVING MYSTERY WOMAN'S APARTMENT IN EARLY HOURS'** _

_Shit_.

 _Don't let it ruin your day_ , Erica repeats to herself, _just don't even think about it_. When her telephone rings, she panics. She couldn't help but assume it was about the article. She ran through the names of all those who might recognize the outside of her building, and the few who knew John had slept on her couch that day. It was a small list.

She's relieved when she hears Brian's voice at the other end.

"Morning, Erica!" he sings, ever the ray of sunshine, "I was wondering if you wanted a lift to the airport. I'm in the neighborhood anyway."

"Right now, Brian, I'd love that."


	6. One Vision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group head to Munich to start recording A Kind of Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music mentioned:
> 
> Pain is So Close to Pleasure by Queen  
> One Vision by Queen

Working his usual calming magic, Brian managed to talk Erica down from several near-panic attacks during their ride to the airport.

Another blessing was the early hour, and the private terminal the band had been granted access to. Many stopped to stare at the sight of Brian, all _hair_ and _legs_ and _grace_ , but there was no press to cause a scene. Of course, the greatest mercy of all, one Erica had neglected to realize in her panicked state, was that the newspaper article she fretted over didn't know who she was.

She was the " _mystery woman_."

Not that she wasn't concerned for John too. His reputation would suffer. And what if his wife read the story and believed it? She might never reunite with him. Brian had to reassure her on that front too. It wasn't the first time a newspaper had thrown allegations of infidelity at the band, and it wouldn't be the last. Queen had an entire press team to defend John. _It was nothing to worry about_.

 _Supposedly_.

Alas, one of the figures going through security just ahead _was_ something to worry about.

"What's _he_ doing here?" Erica growls.

Brian peers at the blonde man waiting impatiently while his bags were checked. "Is he from the BBC too? I thought it was just meant to be you and Ed."

"So did I" she mumbles darkly.

 _Matt_. He seemed to be making a habit of appearing when he wasn't wanted. First department meetings, now _this_. Erica could easily imagine him conspiring with Mr. Michaels. Both men hated her, and Ed too.

"I don't like lawyers" Brian grimaces, listening in earnest as Erica gave a short history of their relationship.

The two settle on evading him, even ducking behind unused luggage trolleys whenever Matt glanced over his shoulder. He'd be harder to avoid when they got to Munich. Whatever poultry excuse he and Mr. Michaels gave for sending him on the trip would probably lead to him poking his nose in.

Once they're united with the rest of the band, the whispering begins.

"He's not setting foot in my fucking studio" Roger declares, louder than necessary. Matt looks over, arms folded crossly across his chest.

"What do you need a lawyer for, anyway?" Freddie questions, shooting daggers his way.

"Another of these bullshit safeguards from the company," Ed says hoarsely, sliding a cigarette between his teeth. Last night's exploits had taken their toll. Naturally, Freddie looked completely flawless.

Roger holds out a lighter, clicking it to life and taking a deep breath of the smoke that followed. "Often get up to illegal activities, Tetley?"

Ed bats his red eyelashes. " _Frequently_."

Erica had given up asking whether the two were fucking around with everyone. She didn't suspect anything. Both men were in committed relationships after all. Then again, even at a distance, the way they flirted with one another made her feel hot under the collar.

Conversation quietens with the arrival of the last member of the group. Despite the faint rings of fatigue circling his eyes (their color _still_ a mystery), John walks over with a spring in his step. He's met with surprise. Maybe the newspaper wasn't something to be concerned about?

"Can I have a quick word?" he whispers, having greeted everyone but Matt with a warm smile.

_Or maybe it was?_

Erica finds herself gently pulled aside. Her mouth takes control as soon as it's sure the others are out of earshot. "I'm sorry about the photo, John. _Really_."

The bassist crooks an eyebrow curiously. "Why, did _you_ take it?"

"No, but-"

"Then you don't need to feel sorry. We've all been dealing with this kind of stuff for years. I'm just relieved they didn't name you". Brian was right. Erica was so junior in her own media dealings that she'd forgotten such allegations were part and parcel for famous musicians. She'd never been caught up in something like this before.

"Serves me right for leaving that lipstick mark on your cheek" Erica jokes, relieved to be finding the lighter side.

John shifts in his sneakers, burying his hands into his pockets with a shy glance downwards. "I'm the idiot who didn't wipe it off."

"Silly sod" she pokes, "You can write a saucy bassline that tops the charts but you can't wipe your own face."

John shrugs. "S'pose I wanted to keep it there for a little longer."

Erica surprises herself with how low her voice drops, entirely enthralled by the glimmer of intrigue growing in his eyes. "Look nice, did it?"

 _Felt nice too_. She could remember the feeling perfectly. The warmth simmering beneath his pale skin, a delicious contrast to her darker tone. The way his eyelids fluttered ever so gently as she leaned near his cheek. The light prickle of stubble against her lips. There had been better ways to wave him off from the apartment. She supposed she'd known _exactly_ what she was doing when she kissed him.

"Plane's ready" Brian calls.

"Munich awaits, darlings" Freddie sings, looping an arm through Jim's.

Roger and Ed walk together, giggling over whatever mischief they were concocting to get through the flight. The more Erica observed the pair the more she could understand the bizarre bond they had. They were so _alike_. Two devilishly pretty wannabe-jesters who were usually found with a cigarette in their mouth and a drink in their hand.

She finds herself keeping a distance from them, not wanting to disturb their rascality, but stays near to John.

"Did I imagine it or did you describe my basslines as _saucy_ just now?" the man taunts, thin lips hesitating on a smirk. She'd told him before that _smugness_ didn't suit him. She was wrong.

"Just the casual observations of a journalist" Erica dismisses, "Besides, I just assumed _sauciness_ came naturally to you."

* * *

The limousine grinds to a halt. A tinted window whirs down, exposing the facade of a beaten up hotel. Freddie peers disapprovingly over his sunglasses. “No, no. This won’t do” he judges, “Miami, you’ll find this pair room in our hotel won’t you? I won’t have them staying here.”

Erica opens her mouth to protest at the extra expense.

”Done” agrees Jim Beach, calmly sliding a clunky mobile phone from his suit pocket.

Freddie looks expectantly at Matt, an uncomfortable presence so far. Roger opens the door nearest to him to reinforce the point. “Only so much in the budget, mate” he says.

The lawyer climbs out without a word, though glares furiously in Erica’s direction. As funny as the humiliation was, she knew she’d pay for it later. Freezing him out as the band did would only spur him on, make him even more vengeful.

She considers calling after him, insisting room be found for Matt too in whatever more luxurious accommodation Freddie had in mind.

But she decides against it, not an ounce of guilt plaguing her as the car began to move again.

Musicland Studios was slightly daunting from the outside. It stood out against the skyline like a drab, grey thumb, lined with rows upon rows of balconies. It’s main function was as a hotel, but had a world-class recording studio hidden away in the basement.

The interior proves nicer, sleek and modern, and far above the budget of Erica and Ed. They’d begun to sweat when Freddie suggested the change. They could easily imagine the shock of their bosses at the BBC when the bill arrived.

It takes some effort to persuade Freddie that a posh suite each wasn’t necessary, instead taking Miami up on the offer of a double room to share.

“This is Mack” Brian explains, welcoming a long-haired German into the fold, “Our engineer.”

The two journalists politely shake hands with him. “I love the work you’ve done with ELO” Erica compliments, “I can’t wait to see what you come up with with this lot.”

Mack seems pleased with that. “I hope I can be of some use” he nods modestly.  
  
Luggage finds its way to its respective rooms, and after a brief argument with Ed over how to divide the wardrobe space Erica finds herself unpacked and settled.

During the flight Roger had insisted the group gather in the studio straight away, a whole host of exciting ideas buzzing about his head. They’d all been singing their respective works under their breaths on plane, putting the finishing touches to their first drafts.

Erica finds John working on one beside the pool, a welcome retreat, she thought, before the chaos of making an album began.

He lets her relax into a sun lounger without interrupting her, appreciating the need for peace.

Of course, it’s short-lived.

”Can you sing, Erica?” John asks.

The reporter peers at him quizzically, not caring to sit up from the slump she rests in. “I was in choir at school but I think that was out of pity rather than talent.”

“I’m the same” he laments, scratching at his chin as he scoured the crumpled paper resting on his lap.

“Do you want to _sing_ , John?” Erica quips cheekily.

He swallows hard, weighing up the potential humiliation for himself if he agreed.

”You have to promise me you won’t mock me relentlessly” he offers.

”Does this deal apply to all situations?”

John grins. “Absolutely not.”

”Then you and your pipes of gold are safe with me.”

The man straightens out the paper, quickly scribbling in a few last-minute corrections.

He hesitates, a faint wash of pink rising in his cheeks. Erica sits up, wanting to give him her full attention. She reaches over to squeeze his hand comfortingly.

”I promised didn’t I?” she smiles.

John clears his throat, returning to his song with renewed enthusiasm.

“It’s called _Pain is So Close to Pleasure_ ” he says, “The lyrics are a bit sad but it’s pretty upbeat.”

”I like the title” Erica compliments, “Sounds kinky.”

She couldn’t help herself lately. Any reservations she had in light of that damned photo appearing in the newspaper vanished once she got talking to him.

She notices John’s eyes drop to somewhere below her face.

”Says _you_ ”

He gestures to the impressive hickey blossoming over her collar bone, courtesy of the girl she’d spent the precious night with.

“You’d think I’d shagged a vampire” Erica hears herself say, “You should see some of the other ones she left me with.”

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Just shut up._ She’d left her filter behind in England, apparently.

John doesn’t look offended, just amused. And a little curious, as if he was off wondering where those other marks were.

Erica reprimands herself before she can embarrass herself again. ”Sorry, your song. Go on.”

Too late.

All poolside flirtations are cast to the wind by the arrival of a particularly pissed off Roger Taylor.

”I thought I told you to go straight to the studio when you were unpacked?” he barks, aiming a drumstick at the bassist’s head.

It lodges itself in John’s cropped curls.

”Sorry, Rog” he sighs, folding the lyrics up and sliding them into his pocket, “Sometimes when you open your mouth all I hear squeaking.”

Roger threatens him with the other drumstick. “I’ve got plenty more of these, you know.”

John removes the stick from his hair and swats the drummer with it. “We’ll carry on later, yeah?” he offers, turning to Erica before he could be dragged away.

”Look forward to it.”

She can hear the two men bickering as they make their way down the corridor.

”Hitting on a girl in her early twenties, you bastard” Roger teases.

”Bit like hitting on guys in their early twenties.”

”I could go off you, Deacon.”

”Hit me with that fucking drumstick again and I’ll get Fred on you.”

”Fred wouldn’t hit me. I’m his sweetheart.”

”Yes, but I’m his baby.”

* * *

Queen was a band admired the world over. Theirs was music full of intricacy and intelligence. Caretakers of painstakingly produced masterpieces that induced listeners into a state of complete awe.

Tape recorders rolling, pens at the ready, Ed and Erica sit ready to document what would surely be a religious experience.

_One dump_

_One turd_

_Two tits_

_John Deacon_

The two journalists look at each other, bewildered.

_One shrimp_

_One prawn_

_One clam_

_One chicken_

It was certainly an original song.

At least they were having fun.

There'd been a number of arguments so far, though only two of them descended into personal insults and throwing things. The creative process was weird, Erica realized, but never anything other than equal. Each member had a say on the other's work. Indeed, the current song, a work of Roger's he'd based on a poem, had morphed considerably since its original version.

“I need a cup of tea” Ed says, checking the focus on the camera they had set up. The project the journalists were charged with was intended for radio, but they had hopes for television coverage too after discovering the wealth of footage available to them.

The engineer lifts his head wearily from where he’d let it crash ten minutes earlier. “Beer” he mumbles, “Lots of it.”

Erica pats him sympathetically on the shoulder when she spots the band making their way over.

She lights a cigarette and sits in the corner away from the mixing desk, her usual perch when observing the group.

”There’s still a bit missing” Brian notes, “We need a line at the end.”

Roger hums the melody to himself, hitting imaginary drums that only he could hear.

”When are we going to break for lunch do you think?” Jim sighs, gratefully accepting the cup of tea Ed offers him, “I’m _starving_.”

Erica barely noticed the time. It flew by once the music began, the basement studio existing somewhere in a separate reality where hours melted together. The band were painstakingly attentive in their production. She admired the dedication.

“ _Gimme, gimme, gimme_ ” Freddie recites, snapping his fingers furiously, “Gimme _what_?”

”Fried chicken” Jim muses.

The other boys miss the remark, too busy raking their imaginations for a standout way to end the song.

His eyes shooting open, Freddie bounds over to his husband and plants a sloppy kiss on his lips. “Brilliant” he coos, “Just brilliant.”

_Gimme_

_Gimme_

_Gimme_

_Fried chicken_

”We’ll do a proper take of the vocals later” he instructs Mack, by now singing contentedly into a pint of lager.

After praising his partner again, Fred prances over time Roger, listening intently while Mack played his drum track back to him.

”I did notice, darling. That little bit there could be a bit crisper.”

In a rapid succession of drumbeats and cymbal crashes, it was difficult to tell what the singer was actually referring to.

”See, that bit” Freddie nods, flapping his hands at a particular note, “It should be more _ta-dsh_.”

Erica pretends she coughs on her smoke to disguise her laughter. She was glad she had that camera rolling.

Roger stares blankly at his friend.

”You know, _ta-dsh_.”

The baffled whirring of the cogs within Roger’s brain were practically audible.

” _Ta-dsh_.”

”That’s the third time you’ve said it now, Fred, and I still don’t know what the fuck _ta-dsh_ means.”

Rolling his eyes as though it was obvious, Freddie grapples desperately for John. “You know what I mean, Deaky, don’t you?”

The bassist resists the urge to blink in bewilderment, fearing the other man’s wrath. “I’ll jump on the kit and get _ta-dsh_ -ing” he volunteers.

Roger hands him his drumsticks, too enthralled by the mystery of Freddie’s erratic hand waving to take to the drums himself.

”I didn’t know you could play the drums too” she says, impressed. She watches him twirl the sticks about his fingers nimbly. 

”We’ve all picked up each other’s instruments over the years” John reveals brightly, “I’m a man of many talents.”

Erica eyes him over her cigarette, soothing her rapid heartbeat with a long drag. “I look forward to discovering what the rest of them are.”

He winks and steps into the recording space again. Brian follows, whispering something to himself about changing his solo. Jim and Freddie head outside, keen for fresh air, leaving Mack and Roger to deliberate over the mixing desk.

”You know the recording will pick up _your_ voice too, right?” Ed points out, spying at his colleague through narrowed eyes.

“We can edit it out”. The editing team back in London had no business overhearing her making flirty comments, no matter how harmless their intention, about a married man. The scandal would reach Mr. Michaels quicker than anything.

Roger claps his hands, summoning the attention of the room. “Quick mixing lesson” he announces, insisting the two journalist shuffle forward.

”What shall we make Brian’s guitar sound like?” he asks his students.

”Squeaky” Ed suggests.

The drummer fiddles with a few sliders on the desk before clicking play on the track. A previously delightful solo of Brian’s is twisted into a high-pitched, mouse-like sound.

Roger grimaces. “Makes the solo shorter though” he notices, “Which is a win in my book.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love reading your comments so please leave any and all thoughts below!


	7. Don't Lose Your Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erica and Brian go sight-seeing, and Ed and Roger get into trouble
> 
> Also contains a slightly steamy kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains mentions of cocaine use
> 
> Music mentioned:
> 
> A Kind of Magic by Queen  
> Don’t Lose Your Head by Queen  
> Landslide by Fleetwood Mac

September rolled around quicker than anything, and with it the realization that the gang hadn't taken the time to explore the city yet.

Erica had never been to Munich before, and the band had often been too busy to sight-see in previous years. The same was somewhat true now, most members so engrossed in their craft that they barely left the hotel. Thankfully, Brian had been feeling rather adventurous.

It was nice to stop and appreciate their surroundings for a change. There was certainly a lot to see. Even the architecture was interesting in Erica's eyes, something she wouldn't ordinarily pay any attention to.

The streets of Munich were vibrant compared to London, a variety of stalls laden in hand-made gifts and confectionary lining the cobbles. The handful of museums the two tourists had already visited had provided some historical background to the place.

"Do you fancy a pretzel?" Brian asks, rummaging in his pocket for some spare notes. Erica nods happily. It was like being on holiday. She and Ed had been trying to piece their work project together for a month now. She was entitled to an afternoon off.

She and Brian chat contentedly, practically inhaling their pretzels they were so nice. The sun still shining, not quite ready to return to the madness of the basement studio yet, they take a detour through a nearby park.

" _Englischer Garten_ " Erica reads on the sign outside, "Can't _imagine_ what that means."

It did look rather like an English park, she noticed. Huge and rolling, its plants and trees in no particular pattern or order. The bubbling stream that ran through the Gardens seemed like a perfect place to relax, and so she and Brian find themselves lounging on the bank, still picking the crumbs of their snacks from their clothes.

"I love it here" she sighs cheerfully, dark eyes wide as she took in the landscape, "I've never been sent abroad for work before."

”It’s one of my favorite things about this job” Brian agrees, “Exploring. It’s no fun being stuck in London all the time.”

”I think it’s important to enjoy peaceful moments like these. To _escape_.”

Erica recalled the first time she’d gone star-gazing with the guitarist back home, when he’d told her how he liked the sound of vanishing into space.

”You’re quite keen on running away, aren’t you?” she notes. She didn’t mean anything by it, she just wondered what it was he was running away _from_.

“Aren’t we all?” Brian questions, “We all deserve a minute to ourselves I think.”

Erica hadn’t reached that point yet, though she assumed it’d come eventually.

It was her friend she worried about.

”Is everything alright, Brian?” she asks, “Back home I mean.”

He exhales heavily, sinking the mass of curls atop his head into the long grass. “My wife and I were arguing a lot before I left. And I know it’s all going to start up again the minute I get back” He stops himself, distracted by a small insect that buzzes by. “I suppose it hits me sometimes. The _failure_.”

“You’re not a failure, Brian” Erica reminds him. She’d never seen such sadness in those hazel eyes of his. They were so often brimming with kindness and a fascination with life that never grew tiresome.

He was the sweetest person she knew. It hurt to think he might think less of himself.

”Marriage isn’t my specialist subject, obviously, but I know it’s tricky. And at the very least, I’d like to be a shoulder to cry on if you need it.”

Brian squeezes her hand in thanks. “I can see why John confides in you. You’re never judgemental. Just kind, understanding.”

Erica didn’t know what to do with the compliment, feeling a blush creep up on her. It felt good to know she was doing something right.

”I know what’ll cheer you up” Erica declares.

Brian watches her hop up to her feet energetically. “Another pretzel?”

”I was going to say a cold beer but another pretzel sounds damn good too.”

* * *

Matt was certain no one could see him peering through the studio door. That was Erica and Jim’s assumption, anyway. For some time now they’d noticed the man peep in and quickly dive away.

Freddie and Roger had made it perfectly clear, with the use of less than Christian language, that the lawyer wasn’t needed in the recording space. He was only in Munich as a precaution, after all. They didn’t care what Mr. Michaels angrily barked at them over the phone.

For some time Erica had wondered what it was that had summoned the famous leech this time. There was nothing untoward happening, just the usual creative processes as another song took shape.

_This rage that lasts a thousand years,_

_Will soon be gone_

John bops along as he picks at his bass, lost in the groove of what was yet another infectious rhythm.

It was her favorite song they’d worked on so far, so fun and full of energy. She already knew the accompanying video would be _something_.   
  
_It’s a kind of magic_

Freddie hits a high note perfectly, his whole body contributing to the sound. Jim watches his partner in amazement, constantly impressed by his talent.

Erica had been quite touched when the Irishman revealed to her that Live Aid was his first rock concert. What a gig to start with. She could still cry thinking about how beautiful Freddie’s vocals had been that day.

Magic, magic, magic

Ed creeps in from nowhere, a disturbing absence of feeling forcing his eyes wide open. Erica helps when he pokes at her shoulder. The rest of him suggested an abundance of life. His whole form seemed to twitch with energy.

”Matt needs to go” he utters beneath his breath.

”I know. I’m fed up of him lurking around” Erica grumbles, shooting a look towards the strange blonde who spied in.

Ed leans closer. “He _needs_ to go. If he finds out he’ll tell Mr Michaels” he insists, pupils somehow getting wider. He winces when an overhead light catches him. The twitching becomes more obvious.

Erica is relieved there was no tape recorder or camera rolling. She knew exactly what was going on.

And so did Roger, apparently.

”I knew you’d crumble, Tetley” the drummer mocks, “I just had to finish your other line for you.”

He spoke too loud.

Again Erica looks in Matt’s direction. He lingered too long at the window. He waits for something else to be said before vanishing, for good this time.

Before she can reprimand Roger, he’s barrelling past Mack and into the recording space. Freddie, Brian and John stop dead in their tracks, peering bemusedly at their excited mess of a drummer dancing on the spot.

”Oi!” Roger bellows, “Why are you doing the vocals without me?”

“It would seem you were otherwise engaged” the singer fires.

Brian aims a fresh tissue at the blonde’s head. “There” he dismisses, “For whatever it is you’ve got under your nose.”

Roger wipes the few remaining specks of white away from his nostrils. “Right, lets _crack_ on then” he shouts, cackling at his own joke, then practically charging towards his drum kit.

Brian blocks his way. “I’m not recording with you when you’re shit-faced.”

”Oh, piss off, grandad.”

Erica stops Ed before he can wander into the stand-off, feeling the early stages of an argument brewing. “Ed, we agreed this was a work day” she warns quietly, “There’s a fucking lawyer snooping around in the shape of my ex-fiancé and you’re doing _coke_.”

Her colleague blinks vacantly.

”You know what happened last time. I’m _not_ sitting with you in the hospital for twenty-four hours again” He’s too out of it to register her words, but goes along with it anyway. “Go up to our room and lie down. I don’t want you causing problems, alright?”

Jim steps forward, generously offering to make sure Ed got there safely. He even volunteered to stay with him for a while, to make sure he hadn’t overdone it.

Erica didn’t like to preach. She wasn’t perfect. She was a firm believer in letting people enjoy themselves, too.

But Matt’s continued intrusion made her nervous. Mr Michaels already despised Ed. He was desperate for an excuse to fire him.

”We can do the drum track tomorrow, darling” says Freddie, now joining his band mates in an attempt to slow Roger down, “Why don’t you take some time to work on one of your songs?”

The drummer’s mind flips like a switch, and before anyone can utter another word he is swooping in to kiss each man on the cheek. “Good shout” he beams, “I’ll be upstairs.”

He jogs away, high as a kite.

”Thank you for not recording that, dear” Fred breathes in relief, “It’s like working at a fucking kindergarten sometimes.”

”Never a dull day” Erica agrees, almost winded by the last few moments.

She catches John prop himself up against an amplifier, pulling at the buttons of the bright shirt he wore to reveal a plain white tank top underneath. It clung to him just right, revealing the carvings of a deceptively toned figure.

”Tired?” she asks. A loud yawn from the bassist gives her an answer.

”It’s been a _day_ ” he summarises, “Still, I’m happy with how everything’s going so far. Coked-up drummers excluded.”

Erica snorts, praying he didn’t notice how often she darted back to that gloriously fitted tank top. “Any thoughts on the album name yet?”

”Not yet. The obvious thing is to name it after the strongest track” John theorises, folding strong arms across his chest.

The others overhear the conversation and swoop in. “One Vision’s looking like a decent contender” Brian interposes.

Freddie shakes his head. “No, One Vision is clearly the opening number. It’ll blow the roof off if we go out on stage to it.”

“Why not A Kind of Magic?” Erica proposes, “Sets a nice, light tone for the rest of the album. Lot of potential for the cover too. It could be _fun_.”

She’s certain the stare the three men point her way lasts several minutes. This was _Queen_ she was talking to. What did she know about making albums?

Yet to her credit, they begin to agree. “I quite like that” Brian ponders.

Freddie blesses the young reporter with a firm kiss to the forehead. “We’ll have a think.”

“Told you you’d be a big help” John commends.

Erica fiddles with the large hoop hanging from her ear. “I was worried I might be a bit of a distraction” she voices.

It’s John’s turn to check her over now. He’s as nervous as her about getting caught lingering in certain places, Erica could sense that plainly. He raises an eyebrow cheekily. “Well-“

”Not like _that_ ” she protests.

John holds his hands up defensively. “Not what I meant” he insists.

”I should hope not.”

”Quite right.”

They laugh for some reason, oblivious to how the distance between them had shortened slightly.

”We’re heading up to the bar, lovies” Freddie invites, leaning his head wearily on Brian’s shoulder.

“A drink sounds good” Erica agrees. Something _cold_. Anything to bring down the heat simmering beneath her skin.

She knew it was a symptom of her assignment. She communicated with the same group of people day after day. Developing an _itch_ of sorts was natural.

Though she couldn’t help but feel she should know better. She’d lectured Ed on staying focused on work. Not to mention the scare she’d had with the newspaper all those weeks ago.

And so she follows the rest up to the bar, determined to keep herself under control. 

* * *

Ed and Roger were fast asleep in their respective rooms, gripped entirely by the torment of a major come-down. Some floors below, a small party had begun.

They weren’t celebrating anything in particular. Freddie had raised a glass to their collective good work. They’d all agreed on a slightly later start the following day, to give everyone a chance to fully recuperate.

”Are you missing England yet?” Jim poses, passing Erica the glass of white wine she’d requested.

”Not at all, actually” she realises, “I’m quite at home here.”

She’s caught off guard by a piercing giggle from the girl behind the bar. She’d been laughing ever since John had walked over, batting her eyelashes furiously at him as he gave his order in broken German. Erica had tried not to notice. The wasn’t comfortable with the jealousy the sight awakened in her.

“I’ve got some pretty cool footage so far” she rails on, turning her back on the flirty barmaid, “It’s quite refreshing to just watch you guys _work_. Adds an earthy quality some people miss under all the pomp.”

She’d played her tapes back for the gang. They’d told her how they sometimes worried they might seem to be all style and no substance, such was their dedication to larger-than-life production.

”Do you think the BBC might let us use some of it for a music video?” Brian asks.

”I don’t see why not” Erica says, silently overjoyed by the prospect, “I’ll ask.”

The topic of conversation fades into something calmer, and with dangerous curiosity Erica finds herself thinking of scene unfolding just feet away.

The girl was leaning over the top of the bar, grabbing John’s wrist as he said something particularly amusing. She leans over further, exposing a little more of her cleavage. Erica couldn’t tell whether John was into any of it. She wouldn’t blame him if he was.

But damn it if it didn’t nag at her.

She wanders off a little later into the party, taking her fifth or sixth glass of wine into an unused ballroom just along the corridor.

It looked as though the hotel staff had just finished packing up after a big event, white chairs adorned with pretty bows stacked up against one wall. Abandoned turntables were left behind too, boxes of the missing DJ’s vinyl shoved underneath.

A pleasant numbing sensation settling at the back of her skull, Erica rummages through. A Fleetwood Mac album catches her attention. It finds itself atop the turntable, the needle lowered onto a random groove.

Erica just about catches the closing bars of _Say You Love Me_. The soft plucking of an acoustic guitar takes over. Setting her wine glass aside, she takes to the dance floor alone, swaying along to the gentle picture Stevie Nick’s voice painted for her.

_I took my love, I took it down_

_Climbed a mountain and I turned around_

Someone observes her from the doorway, capturing her every graceful movement. Erica was too warmed by all the wine to care. “I know I can’t dance” she says, “I don’t care.”

As slow as the song, John approaches, reaching out to support her wandering arms. “Might be worth having someone to lean on, though” he suggests.

Erica smiles sleepily, pulling the hands he awkwardly hovered just above her skin down around her waist. Someone to lean on sounded quite nice actually.

John relaxes into the embrace, grip tightening involuntarily when she wraps her arms around his neck.

_But time makes you bolder_

_Even children get older_

_And I'm gettin' older, too_

The music takes hold, soothing and invigorating all at once. The longer it plays, the more flush both dancers find themselves. Without any kind of prompt, they’re suddenly face to face.

Erica knew it was against her better judgment. It just felt too nice to back away from, her partner’s hold on her waist like a touch of heaven.

”I suppose I should be heading to bed soon” John murmurs into her cheek. He doesn’t make any attempt to leave. Neither did Erica, though she knew she should go before she had a chance to do anything stupid.

The song enters its final, aching verse. The atmosphere in the ballroom verges in the irresistible.

Erica isn’t sure who moves first. All she could recall was the slight shift of someone’s face, shallow breathing in sync, mouths just inches away from each other.

It begins as a faint brush of lips, a testing of the waters. Another follows, just firm enough to allow sparks to fly.

Erica watches an entire rainbow implode behind her eyelids, the aftershock going right to her core, tightening the hold she had around John’s neck. She hums when he buries a hand into her curls, the feeling divine.

The laidback strums of _Landslide_ fade out, and with it the innocence in the air.

It was all starting to unravel, the lonely frustrations and throwaway comments both Erica and John had built up since their venture across the sea. The attraction they’d convinced themselves could be easily buried.

Kisses become more desperate, what felt like an age’s worth of quiet pining bursting forth in a single wave.

Lost in the way he tugs gently at her hair, Erica bites gently at John’s lip, the pleased grunt he gives only spurring her on all the more.

She feels a hand slip under the strap of her dress, exposing a soft shoulder to him that he promptly dives for.

” _Fuck_ ” Erica mouthes, clutching at him as he nipped and sucked at her skin. John finds his way to her neck, then her chest, leaving a trail of impassioned marks that let her know he was hers.

She hauls him back up to her lips, missing the taste of him. With strength she didn’t know she possessed she backs him against the wall of the ballroom, pulling at his curls, making him curse between fervent attacks on her lips.

Achingly slow, she traces the hem of the white tank top she so adored. She could feel the firmness of the figure beneath now. Indelicately she drags her nails against the muscles there, whispering the foulest sin into his ear. Her hand roams freely across his chest, then downward, stopping just above the top of his boxers.

Unable to remain passive any longer, John turns, pressing Erica against the wall instead. Then he’s everywhere at once, pupils blown wide as he sought to get enough of her. His hands had a mind of their own too, one slowly lifting her dress up her thigh, the other gently curling about her throat.

His voice is hoarse, a thousand shades darker than Erica had ever heard it. “ _God, I want you_.”

It was just like her dream. Events finally dawn on her. John seems to realise too, the lust in his eyes giving way to guilt.

She was here for work, and he was still married.

”I think I’ll be off to bed now” Erica coughs, chest still heaving, “Good night, John.”

”Night, Erica” the man nods, clearing his throat loudly, smoothing down the mess she’d made of her hair.

She darts away without another word or glance, her sights set on getting into bed before she could do something stupid again.

With every quickened step she becomes aware of the throbbing between her legs, the regret that she hadn’t stayed and enjoyed John’s touch just a little longer.

Studying her reflection in the elevator mirror, Erica questions whether the hunger that occupied her thoughts would just die away. Whether she could just shut her eyes and forget how _good_ it had felt to finally feel him. Whether she’d just end up jumping the bones of the next person she saw.

The elevator dings, and she flies through the door, hurriedly trying to concoct an excuse for Ed as to why she looked so crazed.

She’s almost at her hotel door when she spots him, lurking as usual.

 _Matt_.


	8. Mystery Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The band record Who Wants to Live Forever. Tensions threaten to bubble over.
> 
> Features Brian and Fred being golden and some more spice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music mentioned:
> 
> Who Wants to Live a Forever? by Queen

Time stopped at a particular moment. Erica could pinpoint it exactly.

She'd spotted Matt at the other end of the hallway, hands held out defensively. "I wanted to say" he grumbled, "I'm not going to say anything about Ed getting off his head on coke. It's you I've got an issue with, not him". He'd said it as though not reporting Ed to Mr. Michaels was a heroic deed worthy of praise.

 _God_ , Erica despised him. Though clearly, in his own twisted way, he loved her. _Wanted_ her. The ache between her thighs worsened, memories of the intense tryst she'd had with John unrelenting in their persistence.

So she'd practically leaped upon her ex-fiance, closing her eyes and letting Matt do the rest. She could at least pretend it was John still holding her. If she'd said his name at any point Matt hadn't noticed.

Time resumes the moment the man climbs out of bed the next morning, retrieving the various articles of clothing thrown across the room. Erica turns her back on him, drawing the covers right around her neck.

Ed hadn't been in their hotel room when she'd fallen through the door. She wouldn't have gone ahead with it if he was in bed as he should have been.

Erica almost slaps herself. Stupid excuse.

The facts were plain. She'd needed a shag - and had chosen perhaps the worst possible candidate for it.

At least she'd made clear the second she'd awoken that she'd made a mistake. She had no interest in reuniting with Matt. Quite the opposite. Erica feels slightly guilty for using him until she realizes she hadn't offered him those things at all. He'd just assumed their night together meant something more.

"You've always been a cold bitch" Matt hisses, fastening his belt about his waist, "You'll regret this. I'll make sure of it."

She shuts him out, pulling a pillow over her ears, praying silently that his threats weren't real.

"I let you get away with it last time" he curses, wrenching the door open, "Not this time."

She didn't know where to begin with that one. Evidently Matt's campaign against her had run rather longer than she'd realized. What had she got away with? She'd never jumped into bed with him like that before. Perhaps it was Ed's drug trip he intended to reveal? But he'd already said it wasn't Ed he had a problem with.

He's gone without another word, feet stomping heavily along the corridor. Another man takes his place in the doorway, visibly refreshed after the previous day's exploits.

Ed figures the situation out within seconds. He tuts, marching over to the bed in an explosion of disapproval. "What would possess you to fuck _him_?" he cries, “You should want to fuck _me_ before _him_.”

Erica flinches as he throws her discarded dress at her. His frustrations were justified. Doubtless, the rest of the group would judge her too if they found out. What if they found out about what she and John had got up to, too? Had John already told the others? John. The ghost of his touch haunts her again, an excited shiver rippling through her. Her hunger rears its ugly head again. Sleeping with Matt had achieved nothing.

His disappointment exhausted, Ed slides under the covers and draws his friend into a warm embrace. "I had a weird night too" he admits, suddenly very solemn.

"Where did you sleep? You weren't here when I came back" Erica questions.

He pauses before he gives his answer, inadvertently making the lie to follow obvious. "Had a few drinks with Freddie and Jim. Ended up falling asleep on the sofa in their suite."

His colleague knew it was bullshit but didn't feel in a position to criticize given her recent sins. Ed, however, felt the need for reparations. "As recompense for you bringing that arsehole into our bed, I demand fresh pancakes" he orders grandly, "And as much syrup as you can steal from the restaurant downstairs."

After a scalding shower, hot enough to burn the vile thought of Matt's touch from her mind, Erica dips quickly into the hotel breakfast. She piles an impressive number of pancakes onto a plate and stuffs two bottles of syrup into her pockets, darting away again before she could be apprehended. Her crime almost complete, she wrestles with the doorknob of her hotel room, not daring to drop Ed's breakfast.

A door further along the corridor opens, and from it emerges the buxom girl who'd tended the bar last night. A head of short curls pokes out after her, a familiar face smiling awkwardly as the woman tried to press a phone number into his hand. Erica wasn't the only one who'd dived into the first pair of arms they could find.

John meets her eyes just long enough for both to work each other out. Understanding passes wordlessly. They weren't an item. They could expect nothing from one another, so what was there to be furious about? They'd just get on with their days, chat as normal, and try to forget the people they'd spent the previous night with.

Yet Erica can't deny the painful sinking she feels when she finally gets the door open. Dumping the pancakes at Ed's side, she collapses onto the duvet, face buried in her hands. It hurt, knowing John had been with someone else.

"Blimey," Ed breathes, taking a greedy chunk from his pancakes, slathering it generously with syrup, "I didn't realize fetching breakfast was so _tiring_."

* * *

Erica found her heartache lingered for several days, no matter what. John talked to her as though nothing had happened. Just another dream of hers. Ed sat securely on his own secret, still not relenting even after Freddie and Jim confirmed he hadn't spent that night on their sofa. Matt vanished. He never turned up to Musicland again.

Freddie was the perfect antidote, at once soothing and distracting.

She was certain _A Kind of Magic_ would be her favorite song on the new album, but once more she'd been blown away.

_There's no chance for us_

_It's all decided for us_

_This world has only one_

_Sweet moment set aside for us_

Brian had tapped a gentle introduction into a keyboard, softly singing the first few lines. Then Freddie had joined in, their voices melting together perfectly. Their own two-piece orchestra. Chilling in only the best of ways. Erica feels a lump form in her throat, tears pricking at her eyes. She'd been impressed by songs, moved by songs, reduced to length crying fits by songs. But never had she been made to feel as she did. So enamored with what she heard that she daren't move an inch, her eyes desperate to register every movement the band made.

Her tape recorder rolled on her lap, but no idea for commentary sprung to mind. Radio 1 would have to find something else to fill the silence. At least the camera had something to capture. Freddie wore baggy shorts and a loosely buttoned Hawaiian shirt, but still looked wholly majestic, swaying along to the music like a classical conductor.

_Who wants to live forever?_

_Who wants to live forever?_

It takes an enormous amount to distract her from what was surely heaven in audio form, but Ed and Roger manage it, visible through the glass partition of the recording space engaging in a heated discussion. Erica had never seen them argue before. It was unnerving, that strange bond of theirs too natural to unwind. Thinking about it, she hadn't seen the two men interact normally since the day they'd done coke together.

What the hell had actually happened that day?

The argument is interrupted by the arrival of another, eyes like thunder. John, immediately tearing into Roger, forcing himself in front of Ed.

Walking away from the beauty Brian and Freddie constructed and towards the fight felt almost nauseating, but Erica's feet wouldn't let her do otherwise. She shuts the studio door behind her quickly, not wanting the unfolding racket to interrupt the recording.

John waves a clump of paper in Roger's face, insults flying from his mouth. The drummer appeared more _bewildered_ than offended but gave back as good as he got, protesting his innocence with as much vigor as his slight frame would allow. Erica joins Ed in the corner he cowers in. She tries to piece what she can from the brawl, John's fury to real to be prompted by anything trivial.

"Why are you yelling at me like I printed the damn thing?" Roger spits, pushing John away, "It's got nothing to do with me". He ducks when the bassist throws the paper he waves in his direction, the creased ball rolling to Erica's feet.

"I've watched you pour over that newspaper all morning, and it didn't once occur to you to call me over?"

"I wasn't _really_ reading it, you tit. I was pretending to so Ed'd leave me alone."

Ed lurches into the fray, returning to whatever burning topic he'd been pressing Roger on before John had appeared. It was hopeless trying to decipher it all. Erica felt quite sorry for Roger, no matter what he'd supposedly done. She's about to step in to help him when something catches her eye amongst the crumpled paper.

Her surname. Salib, printed in bold letters. She retrieves the ball and unravels it. The masthead of a British tabloid appears, one of the usual names bundled in with the newspapers delivered to the hotel every day. Below it, an old photo she'd forgotten existed. Her in one of the skimpy party dresses she'd lived in during university. It wasn't a picture she owned. The only copy of it she'd ever seen had been kept by Matt in a frame on his desk.

Roger escapes, Ed chasing after him. John sinks into the couch behind the mixing desk, defeated. Erica doesn't notice any of it. She doesn't notice anything except the newspaper.

It had happened again, but they'd named her this time. Exposed her. Made her the enemy.

_DEACON BREAKS FREE: QUEEN BASSIST HEADS TO GERMANY WITH NEW MISTRESS IN TOW. Sources tell us more about the scarlet woman, only twenty-three years of age, the band's resident quiet man ditched his wife of ten years for._

Suddenly she missed being a mystery woman who'd left a red lipstick mark on his cheek one morning. She didn't want to be the woman everyone blamed for ruining John's marriage. She didn't want the biggest job she'd had in her career to be overshadowed by vicious gossip.

"I'm sorry" John mumbles, "I'm sorry I dragged you into all this."

Erica searches for the words he'd comforted her with when her first newspaper scare emerged. It was no one's fault but the person behind the headline. Her head swimming, she struggles to find the words.

They actually printed her name, her image. Placed an enormous target on her back for all to see, and given them the knives to throw at her too. She could already hear Mr. Michaels spitting with anger. And Matt laughing.

It was obvious now.

He'd told her he'd made her regret rejecting him. Revenge was his, cruel and bitter. He was the newspaper's source. The camera outside her flat months prior began to make sense too. It killed him to watch her succeeding at her job, the self-pity fierce enough to make him follow her, then wait to catch whoever he could from the band and discredit them. That had been a warning, the slight he claimed he'd let her get away with before.

"The press team will sort it out" John suggests weakly, "They can ring your boss, let him know it's not true."

Erica finds herself drawn back to the recording space, to Freddie and Brian and the haunting splendor of their new song.

"Maybe Ed can send another preview of your project, let them know how hard the two of you are working". He's rambling now.

"It's fine" she replies numbly, brushing past him without a glance.

She slips away and finds herself behind the camera again, tape recorder back on her lap.

Freddie launched into a powerful verse, pumping a triumphant fist in the air as he hit a flawless note. Brian plays him out, pressing the final key with a dramatic flourish.

_Who waits forever anyway?_

Blissfully unaware of all that had unfolded in the adjacent room, Freddie and Brian turn to their audience beaming with pride.

"How was that?" Freddie chirps.

It takes everything Erica has not to breakdown in a fit of tears.

" _Perfect,_ Fred."

* * *

Midnight rolls around, and Erica finds herself on her bathroom floor burying her whimpers into her top. She'd run through all the tissue she could find, not wanting to use all the loo roll for Ed's sake. The fluffy jumper she'd worn to bed had been an unfortunate substitute. She was too upset to care, casting it into the laundry basket once she's confident her latest wave of hysteria has worn off.

The others had done what they could to comfort her. Roger bending over backward to make her laugh, Brian inviting her onto the roof to stargaze, Fred and Jim taking her dancing. Ed had done his part, holding her as she wept, assuring her he'd enact violent revenge upon Matt, and Mr. Michaels too if he phoned in. He'd still been cradling her when he nodded off.

As welcome as their support was, Erica couldn't tear herself away from the disturbing knowledge that her privacy had been invaded. How many had read that article about her and tutted about what a whore she was, breaking up a poor man's marriage? How many of her colleagues began to question her as a journalist, having been labeled the mistress of someone they knew she'd interviewed?

Forcing back a sniffle, Erica pulls one of Ed's t-shirts from an open drawer and slips it over her head. She didn't care that it clashed awfully with her pajama shorts, or that it wasn't as warm as her lovely jumper. Throwing a blanket around her shoulders, she leaves her friend to rest, quietly padding along the hallway headed who knew where. 

After drifting from place to place, secure in the shadows, she found herself taking the steps down into the basement studio. All was buried in darkness by now, the space abandoned until morning. She spots the newspaper, still lying where Jim had thrown it, damning Matt to hell. Perhaps she should burn it? Or just tear it apart? It wouldn't alleviate her humiliation but it might feel good for a moment.

A clatter behind the partition makes Erica jump. She becomes aware of other sounds. Footsteps on carpet, the gentle thud of a bag being dropped to the ground, the scribbling of a pen. Anxiously she peers into the recording area, strained sight just making out a solitary figure.

One tricky fumble for a lightswitch later, the room is bathed in light. The intruder finds himself caught.

"John?"

The man regards her with a shock, but returns to his task. Erica watches, disoriented, as he slips a piece of paper beneath the strings of his bass guitar. ' _Be back in two weeks. Don't call_ '. She notices the packed holdall dumped at his side, and the coat he hooks over his arm. He was going somewhere. Disappearing in the middle of the night.

"What are you doing?" she appeals, tentatively stepping forward.

"I don't really know" John admits.

"It's so hard to think things through when we're recording day after day. And seeing that newspaper attack you, I just-" He stops himself, in need of air. "I felt so overwhelmed."

"So you were going to run away?"

”With _you_.”

Erica scoffs. That was precisely what she should do. Never mind that she’d been accused of turning a work trip to Munich into a holiday with her lover, she should now ditch Ed and their project and fuck off for two weeks. John notices the upset on her face.

”This whole mess, it’s confusing. No, you’re not a home wrecker, and it’s awful that they’d make you out to be one.”

Erica waits impatiently for a _but_.

“But, clearly we have something. We’re adults. We both know that time in the ballroom meant something.”

It rises to the forefront of her thoughts again, as hot and crazed as the day it had happened. The memory makes her aware of the ever-closing distance between her and John.

”I know it did” she agrees, eyes fluttering momentarily to his lips, remembering the graze of them along her chest.

“We need a minute to figure it all out, away from here.”

”Where?”

Erica cautioned herself against encouraging him. They both had obligations in Munich. Not to mention how suspicious it would seem if they vanished at the same time.

”Bali” John declares.

” _Bali_? You’re mad.”

“First place that popped in my head.”

He picks at the fastening of his jogging pants obliviously. Erica just about sees his lips move, her recollections of toying with the hem of his boxers too vivid. She was certain she could hear him, too, each and every curse he’d uttered as she pressed him against the ballroom wall.

”John, I don’t know-“

”Why not?”

Erica feels her emotions bubble up again. Her upset goes straight to her voice, words she had hoped would be assertive sounding hollow and weak. “I just _don’t know_. I don’t know what to do about _any_ of this” she cries.

John is face-to-face with her now. “Do you know how you feel about me? I know how I feel about you.”

She can feel his breath on her face, labored somewhat. He itches at his sides, his hands desperate for something to occupy them.

Erica lets her eyes drift to his lips again, then over the rest of him. She’s slow and certain in her gaze, admiring the detail of every area she’d touched and scratched and kissed.

”I, um-“ She clears her throat. The air in the room thickened, suddenly unbearably warm. She licks her lips involuntarily.

Her hand wanders to her neck, where he’d dug in his coarse fingers and uttered those wonderful words. _God I want you_.

“I-“

John pulls her in, torsos colliding in a flurry of passion. No time was wasted, lips crashing together hard, breathing already frantic.

Erica yanks the coat from his hand and claws at his shirt, clumsily slipping fingers through the buttons in a desperate attempt to feel his skin. She gasps against tongue playing dangerous games with hers, rubbing her behind against the greedy had that clasped it.

It all felt _gorgeous_ , like that night in the ballroom amplified several times, but it wasn’t enough.

A tight grip on each other, they back into the other room, the sofa behind the mixing desk becoming more appealing by the second.

Erica roughly pulls John’s shirt over his head, roaming his chest with sharp nails, peppering his jaw with kisses. He cuts her off with the thrust of a cold hand under her t-shirt.

She suppresses a moan into his shoulder, the heat pooling at her core spreading further and further which each skilful caress and pinch. She presses her hips into his, the friction almost lethal.

John rips her pajama shorts down her legs, leaving her bare below the waist. She responds by untying the string of his pants, fingers deliberately gracing the stretched cloth of his boxers.

They fall into the patchy padding of the sofa, Erica straddling him, grinding down hard. _Good, God_. To think she’d missed out on all this before.

John flips her onto her back, pining her under him just as she wanted.

It couldn’t wait any longer.

They’re one without warning. They adjust to the new feeling with slow movements, both parties humming deeply, the pressure divine. Erica wraps her legs about his waist, willing him on, eager for the high she’d missed out on before.

Speed increases, sweat fusing them together, and soon they’re both a mess of sharp gasps and warm praises. Erica lets her head hang back, mouth agape while John panted into her neck. A blaze creeps ever closer between her thighs.

It doesn’t last much longer, both too excited to hold off. They find their release together, crying out in ecstasy.

Not caring how exposed they were lying to still on the couch, they drift in and out of a contented sleep, Erica gently stroking John’s hair, his head buried between her breasts.

Half-dazed, but thoroughly satisfied, she reaches out to him with a hoarse voice. Her lungs had exhausted themselves over the last few minutes. “John?”

”Hm?” he mumbles.

”I’ll go to Bali with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to share your thoughts below :)


	9. Bali

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger and Ed open up. Brian offers advice. Erica and John escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ed's journey is as important to me as Erica's, so I hope you enjoy his storyline too : )
> 
> Music mentioned:
> 
> Princes of the Universe by Queen  
> Sympathy for the Devil by The Rolling Stones  
> One Year of Love by Queen

Ed studies the twenty-page transcript Erica had written up for him by hand. It was a good two hour's worth of audio, scrawled neatly onto paper, ready for editing. It must have taken her time. He knew how much she hated transcribing. She'd found a moment to neatly pack up the camera footage they had so far, too, ready to be sent to London for review.

It lessened the blow.

Since finding her missing two days ago, John mysteriously disappearing with her, Ed taken the time to contemplate how much of a blow it actually was. Sure, it was annoying to discover she'd abandoned him in Munich, the weight of their project now resting solely on his shoulders. But then he remembered how he'd dumped Live Aid on her at a moment's notice, a colossus of media feats, in order to spend a few extra days with his boyfriend.

Erica had left another nice note, discovered at the foot of his bed. Alongside it was one of his t-shirts, creased and clearly worn during _fun_ of a particular kind. She'd left some cash for him to feed into the washing machine.

He hadn't expressed it, the mention of John's vanishing into thin air provoking the usual bad-tempered bleating from his bandmates, but Ed was quite chuffed with his colleague. She _had_ just had her identity unwillingly exposed by the press. And if she was getting some, good for her.

Matt could choke for all he cared.

Erica was certainly doing better than he was. A good dicking down aside, Erica and John seemed to _work_ together. Everyone around them had noticed how easily they clicked. Alas, Ed's current attachments were rather more complicated.

There's a knock at the door. A mop of blonde hair pokes in. "Am I disturbing you?"

Ed stalls in deciding whether or not to welcome Roger in. They'd been distant lately but were starting to talk without screaming again. Both would deny it, but they missed each other too much to keep at bay.

"You know you're welcome to join in no matter what I'm up to" Ed winks, patting the space beside him on the bed.

Roger saunters in, throwing himself down at the younger man's side. "Fred's declared John a _hopeless romantic_ " he relays, "He says he's been sweet and innocent for too long, and it's high time he stole a gorgeous girl away to foreign climbs."

Ed sighs in relief. He'd been praying for the other's to calm down. Work was impossible while they were in a foul mood. "He's not mad, then?"

"We'll just carry on recording and let John do his bass parts when he's back" Roger shrugs, "It's no big deal, really. I'll miss having an accomplice while I throw peanuts in Brian's hair, though."

"I'll be your stand-in if you like" Ed proposes. It felt good to be concocting mischief with the drummer again, even after what had transpired between them.

Roger places a hand over his heart dramatically. "I'm honored."

They chuckle amongst themselves, but quickly grow quiet. They both pretend to glance over Erica's transcript again, desperate for a distraction from the questions that needed to be asked.

Events catch up. Consciences weigh heavily.

"I'm not sure whether to call Craig while I'm here or wait until we're back in England" Ed affirms. He'd insisted on calling his boyfriend every other day up until now. The excuse that he was busy would only work for so long.

Roger groans, falling back into the mattress with an uncomfortable expression. "Why do you have to say anything at all?"

Ed rolls his eyes. "You rock star types might be quite comfortable lying to your other half's about what you've been up to, but I'm not" he snaps, surprising himself with his maturity. 

Initially, Roger takes offense at the insinuation. However, he quickly remembers what a scoundrel he'd been at times. This was new territory though. It shouldn't sit differently in his mind, but it did. " _Look_ ," he struggles, "This is weird for me."

"I've cheated with other girls before. I'm not proud of it, but I have. _This_ though?" He fights back a shudder, ashamed of the confusion he feels, but even more so the suggestion planted in his head that his latest fuck-up was perverted in some way.

Ed throws the transcript at him, bounding to his feet. He crosses his arms across his chest crossly, refusing to meet the drummer's baby blue eyes. It was the same line of argument that had made him explode in fury the day Erica and John ran away, when he'd bickered with Roger at the mixing desk. "You make me feel disgusting when you say things like that" he rumbles, "Like I'm _wrong_. I've felt that way before, Rog, and it's almost killed me."

Roger reaches out to him but is pushed away. "You're not _wrong_ " he implores, "I don't want you to think that I'm _ashamed_ , or that I've got some daft, morally-righteous stick up my arse, 'cause I've always hated people like that-"

Ed musters up the will to face him, frustration giving way to patience just long enough for him to say his piece.

"I've spent the last thirty-six years of my life totally confident in who I am. Now I'm questioning everything. It's _scary_. Just give me a minute to figure it all out, yeah?"

Painful silence follows. Ed wishes desperately for Erica to return to him, star counselor as she was, so she could help guide him through it. But she was gone. With a deep breath, he steadies himself. Maturity sounded quite good, daunting as it was.

"I understand."

Roger's countenance brightens, it taking all the resolve in the world not to sweep the other man into a generous hug. Ed lets himself sit at his side again, fending off the more intrusive thoughts their close proximity aroused with a pointy stick. "Really, I do."

"Are we mates again, then?" the drummer hopes, offering a hand. Ed clasps it without hesitation.

Both bury the spark they feel when they hands meet. After all, there was no cocaine to blame this time.

"Mates it is."

* * *

Erica wakes to the sound of roaring waves. There were worse sights to see first thing in the morning. Any yearning she had for London, or indeed Munich, disintegrated the moment she gazed out across the sea.

A private bungalow on the beach had become her home for the next two weeks, kept strictly away from the island's many distractions. Surrounded by dense forest, a perfectly serene beach available to the escapees only, it was the epitome of ' _getting away from it all_ '. 

Work out of reach, Erica treats herself to a long bath. The blemishes she'd gained during her and John's latest exploits sting and soften in the water. Isolation had only made their attraction more severe. They hadn't managed much meaningful conversation yet.

 _The talk_ was overdue.

That’s exactly what she aims for as she pads barefoot across the sand.

John sits peacefully near the shore, idly throwing stones into the crystal blue sea. He was finally dressed, donning his favorite yellow shirt and beige pants. He smiles at her approach, refreshed and radiant.

”Sleep well?”

”Better than I have for ages.”

Erica settles to his left, hot sand prickling against her skin. She’d picked out the golden sundress she’d worn when she first encountered the band at the Shaw Theatre back in July.

The pair sit quietly, just watching the water lap softly at their ankles.

They still struggled with the in-between moments. Greeting one another as couples did didn’t seem quite right yet. They weren’t a couple. They’d never been on a date. They were still casually flirting with one another up until a few days ago. Tearing each other’s clothes off was easy, but there had to be more than that, surely?

Erica dives in, emboldened by the total lack of interruption.

”When did you start feeling something for me?” she asks.

A valid inquiry. Their timeline considered, it was pretty rash to immediately jump into bed together.

”That night I stayed at your apartment” John volunteers, “You listened to me drivel on about my problems for hours even though you barely knew me. Created a safe place for me to vent.”

”I mean, seeing you for the first time before that interview” He gives a loud whistle, reducing Erica to embarrassed giggles. “ _Stunning_ , y’know? But it was that morning when I left your place that it sunk in.”

Evidently they were more in tune than they realized. Erica had sensed a different vibe between them back at her flat. There, after an evening spent listening to John pour his heart out about his marital issues, a stupid crush had developed into something more.

“You’ve seen my record collection. I’ve always fancied you” Erica admits, “But getting to _know_ you? You trusted me like I trusted you. Right off the bat. I’ve never let myself open up like that before”. It was as sappy as she’d allow herself to be.

“Am I making any sense? Expressing feelings is a minefield for me.”

John scratches at a bite mark just above his collarbone. “I’d say you manage it quite well.”

Erica chews at her lip, recalling with crystal vision what she’d been up to when she left that particular mark.

”Does it bother you that I’m eleven years older than you?” John poses, “I’ve got _kids_.”

She hadn’t considered that. Her gaze didn’t cast quite that far as yet. Would there be a situation in the future where she’d meet John’s children? How would they feel if their parents’ separation was extended indefinitely?

”We’re both adults. The age-gap doesn’t bother me” she answers, “But I’m not dyeing your hair once you start going grey.”

Mentally she retracts the comment. It suggested a longevity to their relationship she hadn’t quite considered yet.

Other nagging worries present themselves.

”Is it a problem that I’m bisexual?” Erica asks. It was rare she said the word aloud. It felt good. “Only, it’s been a problem before”. Matt hadn’t liked it, denouncing it as a phase she should have left behind at university.

”Not to me” John affirms, “Everyone else can piss off.”

The woman kisses him on the cheek, grateful. She doesn’t wear any lipstick to leave behind on his skin this time.

They chat for a while about their anxieties and their pasts. Erica explained why she'd broken off her engagement with Matt, and how she'd met Ed at university. John talked about why he and his wife had grown apart, how he sometimes struggled to balance work with his family life. Both listened attentively, always ready with comfort and reassurance. It was therapeutic. A totally natural feeling now they were on their own, no newspaper or Matt-related bullshit to contend with.

"Will your mum like me?" John worries, his head now resting in his lover's lap, "I'm usually pretty good with mums."

Erica smiles sadly. "I'm sure she would have done."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I lost my dad when I was a kid."

"I never knew my dad. My mum left him behind in Egypt when she fell pregnant. Always said he was dead weight, too _traditional_. "

John chuckles, reaching up to play with her hair. "She sounds like a firecracker."

"She used to spend her free time going to clubs and hanging out with rock bands". The word _groupie_ had never been used by her mother, but it had been implied.

"So seducing rock stars is a family trait then?" John aims.

Erica slaps him gently over the head.

Eventually, the questions run out, but both were happy with the progress they’d made nonetheless. They still hadn’t covered exactly _what_ both were looking for in a relationship, but there was plenty of time for that.

”Was I always your favorite in the band then?” John asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

Erica shrugs, expression one of mischief. “I was always gunning for Brian but I suppose you’ll do.”

John feigns injury. “How _dare_ you”. He makes a grab for her, but she dodges him, making a break across the shoreline.

With all her might Erica sprints, dodging clumps of seaweed and sharp shells. John stays hot on her tail, running against the sea breeze, long legs too quick for hers. She makes an ill-fated swerve, finding herself caught gently on the arm.

They fall to their knees, out of breath. The soft glow of the Bali sunshine washes over them, enriching and soothing.

It’s in that light that Erica finally realizes what color John’s eyes are. A faint green, tinted with icy grey.

She was certain he was glowing, earthy beauty made intoxicating by the backdrop of paradise. Unknowingly she reaches out to touch his face, savoring the graze of his stubble against her fingers, his secure hold on her middle prompting her to melt into him, gracing his lips with a tender kiss.

They sink into golden sand, grains like silk against their entangled limbs. Erica wraps herself about him like a vine, willing him ever nearer, the happiness swelling in her heart blinding.

And on that beach, lonely and forgotten behind a wall of swaying trees, they surrender to passion again, glad to know one another just a little better.

* * *

Brian sits at a table on the hotel patio, deaf to the busy city around him. An acoustic guitar propped up nearby, he strikes a red cross through a sequence of notes. Freddie had suggested heavy modifications to the guitar track of one of the new album's anthems, a song they'd promised to the upcoming movie _Highlander_ called 'Princes of the Universe'. He'd told himself to get the work done by nightfall.

Roger swaggers out onto the terrace. He wanted to seem confident, like he hadn't spent the last fifteen minutes panicking furiously about what he was going to say. Brian was his oldest friend, the first person he'd thought of confiding in when Ed confronted him earlier in the day.

"Can I ask you something, Bri?" he poses tentatively, making himself comfortable at the patio table. The guitarist greets him with a cheerful glance but immediately sets his head down again, pen tapping against his notebook, anxious in the absence of inspiration. "It's serious."

Brian returns his attention to his friend, eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"

"Nothing" Roger defends, his usual response to the question. "Actually, I-" He drums an uneasy rhythm into his chair with his thumbs. " _Err_."

Brian waits patiently for the drummer to find the right words. It _was_ serious, wasn't it? He wasn't usually so unsure in expressing himself, quite happy to offend where he could.

"Ice cream."

" _Pardon_?"

Roger tries to summon a better metaphor, but his mind draws a blank. _Ice cream_. That'd have to do. He straightens himself, wanting to sell the comparison with as much fake self-assurance as he could. "Say you've always liked vanilla ice cream."

Brian nods. "Reliable little flavor, that one."

"But then you discover you quite like strawberry ice cream as well."

The guitarist feels his stomach start to growl. "Strawberry's good."

To his credit, Roger persists. "Your love for vanilla hasn't changed, but you worry people will judge you because you like strawberry too."

Brian blinks hard, taking several moments to fully process the analogy. It's an intense few moments, Roger fearing he'll have to revert to plain English or abandon the mission altogether if it didn't click soon. Thankfully, Brian _knew_ him, and his oddness, quite well.

"Does strawberry make you happy?" he asks.

"I've only tasted it once so far, but it seemed to agree with me," Roger says, grinning despite himself. 

"Do you plan on being honest with vanilla about the other flavor?"

"At some point."

The guitarist fixes the other man with a knowing smile, eyebrows raised. He jerks his head nonchalantly. "Then who cares what ice cream you like?"

Roger feels a great mass lift from his chest. Clouds parted, his usual nerve flooding back. Ed would be pleased with him, he hoped. Of course, he could have bridged the subject without the mention of frozen dairy, but where was the mystery in that?

Flicking his shades back down over his eyes, the drummer lets his bandmate return to his work. "Cheers, Bri" he praises. He stalks off, a spring in his step. He hoped Freddie and Jim would have the patience to sit through the ice cream analogy. If it had actually worked, that is.

He turns back to double-check. "Just to be clear, this was about me liking blokes, yeah?"

"Did occur to me, mate."

Roger fires a thumbs up at him, casually stepping back inside.

Brian returns to his notes, bemused by the situation. His drummer was an interesting character, to say the least. Brave and wonderful too. He muses on the other man's revelation while he writes. He finishes the song later than intended, the patio cast in shadow by the time he's done, but he doesn't mind. He was just happy his friend could enjoy ice cream a little more comfortably now.

* * *

Erica tries in vain to play along to the radio.

John moves one of her fingers back to the correct fret. She strums, pleased when the sound that follows doesn't make the musician wince. It had been a fascinating hour, though frustrating at times. Erica was never more certain that her calling was in writing about music, not playing it. A budding guitarist she was not. At least Brian was under no threat.

The Rolling Stones song they listen to bursts into an energetic solo. Erica pretends to jam along, clumsily picking at random strings in a mock-rockstar pose. If Keith Richards had a grave, he would surely have rolled in it. Or burst through the soil and strangled her in an act of retribution. John is less upset, nearly inhaling his smoke in a violent guffaw.

 _Sympathy for the Devil_ sambas its way into an electrifying outro, and Erica gives up, collapsing onto the wicker couch. She retrieves the spliff she'd left burning in the ashtray nearby, treating herself to a hearty puff. She watches the rings she blows drift upwards, dispersed into nothing once they hit the ceiling fan. John strums a tune she doesn't recognize into his guitar.

It was a mellow number, whatever it was, slow and full-hearted, the promising skeleton of a romantic ballad.

"I'd never have you pinned as a stoner" John mumbles, cigarette gripped between his teeth while he developed the motif.

Erica revolves the spliff around her fingers, studying the way the paper browned with idle fascination. "It's nice every now and then" she confesses. Her attitudes towards most things were pretty liberal. There had been hazy occasions where Ed had tempted her to slightly stronger substances, but she always maintained the intelligence to know when to stop.

A shrill ringing cuts through the zen fog cornering her thoughts. John curses, leaping to his feet to silence the racket. After a brief fumble in his coat pocket, he withdraws a clunky plastic device, yanking up its antennae and pressing it to his ear. "Hello?" he speaks into his cell.

Erica throws a pillow at him. "I thought we agreed on no phones. The rest of the world doesn't exist while we're here". John makes his excuses to the person on the other end, promising to call them back in two weeks. He sinks into the sofa again, expression unreadable.

"Who was that?" Erica asks curiously.

"My lawyer" John answers, keen to return to his guitar. It occurs to her what a daunting word it was, conjuring all kinds of curious images. She recalled when the bassist had admitted he'd lost his license during a drink-driving incident.

"Have you been banned from the road again?" she jokes.

Something occurs to John. A hopeful glint in his eye, he tears himself from his music and throws a slender arm around beau's shoulders. "He's advising me on the divorce."

Heavy smoke floods Erica's nostrils. She chokes violently, almost slipping onto the floor. " _Divorce_?"

John hadn't told her about any divorce proceedings. He and his wife had amicably separated, last she heard. He'd never discussed anything more final with her, not even while they'd been exposing their very souls to one another. Winded, she hopes she's mistaken, that she's missed something.

"Ronnie and I aren't getting back together" John shares, visibly unnerved by the other woman's reaction, "I thought you'd be happy."

When exactly had he started setting this into motion? They'd only been gone for a few days.

"I'm glad you're both out of a relationship that was clearly making you miserable" Erica reasons.

John exhales irritably. He shuts his eyes, waiting for that inevitable _but_.

The attitude makes Erica irritable too. Her voice betrayed as much, though she didn't intend it. "It just makes this feel so _serious_ all of a sudden" she argues, "What if this is just a bad patch you're both hitting, and at some point, you decide you don't want me anymore?"

She'd never forget the pain that strikes him. An insult she didn't mean, raw and deep. John flinches, rises to his feet. "Is this just sex to you? Forgive me, but I figured there was a little more going on here."

"That's not what I said" she contends.

She knew what she'd got into when she agreed to accompany him to Bali. They'd agreed there was something between them, the isolation the island allowed them the perfect space to think it through.

"Did you just think I was just after a shag? Something to occupy me until my marriage got back on track?" 

"You're twisting my words" Erica fires, "I've just been accused of breaking your relationship up. That newspaper calling me a fucking _scarlet woman_. Now you're telling me its true."

Sure, his and Ronnie's marriage had hit a pretty low point before they'd started. But clearly something had pushed that damage beyond repair. What other conclusion was she supposed to arrive at? She'd sealed their demise. It hurt, all the names she imagined readers back home called her flashing up one by one.

John doesn't hear her tortured thoughts, just what he perceived to be resistance. "Good to know where your head's at". He picks up his guitar and leaves, settling on a chair outside out of her reach. He picks up his smooth tune again, not looking back at her, not saying another word.

Erica stubs her smoke out, watching him through the screen for a little while. Silently she reviews everything she'd said. Where had she misspoken? She'd run away from Munich with him to figure out the nature of their bond. Seemingly, John had already decided. It angered her, the _assumption_.

She withdraws to bed alone, the ever-rolling ocean lulling her into a dreamless sleep. She worried about what she'd wake to. Further arguments? What if he was gone when she woke up?

* * *

He wasn’t.

The weeping of a guitar made that obvious the moment she opened her eyes again. John’s new melody had developed considerably in the hours since it’s conception. She could hear him faintly singing too. It had lyrics.

Silently she looks into the sitting room. There was John, still puffing away at a pack of cigarettes, delicately plucking out a peaceful riff.

She’d promised him that she wouldn’t laugh at what he was convinced was an awful voice. Before, he’d only let her hear him sing under that condition. The vow was pointless. Erica wasn’t tempted by a giggle in the slightest.

It wasn’t a perfected sound, not like Freddie’s was. But it was beautiful, pure and real and vulnerable.

_Just one week of love_

_Is better than a lifetime alone_

_One sentimental moment in your arms_

_Is like a shooting star right through my heart_

The members of Queen kept surprising her. Always finding new ways to move her.

_My heart cries out to your heart_

_I’m lonely but you can save me_

_My hand reaches out for your hand_

_I’m cold but you light the fire in me_

He wasn’t just singing about anything. A character of his own devising who found themselves grasping with a deep-seated affection. _He_ was the man falling hopelessly in love.

_My lips search for your lips_

_I’m hungry for your touch_

_There’s so much left unspoken_

_And all I can do is surrender_

The intense moments they shared were the symptom of a feeling, not the sum of it. John wasn’t wrong to assume she was worth surrendering to. He’d just reached that truth faster than she had.

John catches her unawares, pausing in his accidental serenading of her. “I’m thinking of a nice saxophone bit here” he says, “And it’ll be _one year of love_ on the album. Sounds better.”

Erica walks out from the darkness of the bedroom, yearning for him to start singing again, the words he hummed reaching a place in her soul she’d entirely forgotten about.

”Have to have a nice swell from an orchestra too” John rambles, a vision of calm after her last encounter with him, “As all ballads should.”

Erica feels tears prick at her eyes, but she wasn’t ashamed. It dawns on her in an instant.

”I’m in love with you.”

She’d never have dreamt of saying such a thing so soon before.

John let’s his guitar slip from his fingers, never faltering in his focus on her. “I’m in love with you.”

Slowly Erica crosses over to him, kneeling down on the floor to meet him face to face. It was _real_. Who gave a shit how much, or how little, time they’d taken to speak it? It hadn’t required much discussion in the end.

“You’ll have to teach me how to play it” Erica jests, voice little but a whisper. John brushes a tear from her cheek, ignoring his own.

”I mean, I’ll _try_ ” he retorts.

They laugh and weep at the same time, sentimental fools and proud of it.

Gently Erica lays him down, climbing onto the couch. She lets her robe drop from her shoulders, gaze fierce and unwavering. She captures his lips with her own, softly tilting his chin towards her.

There was no rush this time.

They take the time to truly feel each other, tracing each other’s features, wordlessly worshipping each and every curve and blemish.

Never taking her eyes off his, Erica eases herself onto him. She rolls her hips steadily. Takes her time, the lyrics of the song he’d written for her punctuating each movement.

John wraps his arms around her, holding her close, drawing loving patterns into the smooth of her back. The pleasure was searing, blinding, but they never falter in that tranquil tempo.

Erica wills him deeper still, all consumed by that heavenly pressure, balancing herself on his shoulders as he mouthed warm words into her breasts.

”Need you” she whimpers, his skin brushing the sweet spot between her thighs, “Need you, love.”

John kisses her again, this incredible woman of his taking him to new highs. “I’ve got you.”

And so they fall apart.


	10. Mr. Michaels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group return to England after an interesting few months. Erica is confronted by her enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Couple of uses of homophobic slurs

Ed raps his knuckles on the bathroom door again, increasingly desperate for a wee. He’d held out for much of the flight, but was cutting it rather short, and it would be time to return to his seat soon.

A minor miracle, the door seemingly unlocks itself. Ed pushes it eagerly, already grasping with his belt buckle.

He finds the bathroom occupied by his colleague and a member of the band they’d just spent two months with. One was on their knees, the other thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Ed feels his brows shoot right up his forehead. _Whoops_. He darts back to the other section of the jet, suddenly the desire to piss not so urgent. Clearing their throats, keen to ignore the reality that they’d been walked in on, John and Erica return to their seats, burying their noses into magazines.

“That was an awfully long chat you had with the pilot, Deaky” Freddie observes over his cocktail. The bassist shrugs, crossing his legs deliberately. “And an awfully long time spent on the toilet, Erica.”

Erica smiles sweetly. “Ladies problems.”

They knew the others were aware of them. They weren’t stupid.

And there had been a minor incident when Mack discovered the journalist bent over an amplifier in nothing but her stockings, John buried between her thighs.

But keeping to themselves sounded good for now. There was no pressure from the little unit around them that way, no intense questions that would inevitably be raised in the collective absence of a filter.

“Were we meant to bring that Matt chap back with us?” Brian questions suddenly, glancing about the plane for a glimpse of the meddlesome lawyer. Jim pauses in his attempt to throw grapes into his husband’s mouth. “Phoebe called into the dive hotel. Apparently he checked out early” he explains, “Headed home, presumably.”

Ed and Erica exchange dark looks. Doubtless, he’d immediately scurried back to their boss the moment his plane hit the tarmac. He’d made clear he had retribution on his mind, even if that meant selling Erica out to the newspapers.

Together the duo had concocted a loose plan. It wouldn’t reverse the damage Matt had done in obsessing over his ex-fiance, perhaps even spurring him on, but it would force him out of their workplace.

They’d written a letter to the higher-ups. He’d used BBC resources to gather gossip for other publications. If Mr. Michaels didn’t get in the way, Matt would be out the door before they knew it.

Bored by the journey, Roger pops open a packet of peanuts. He pours a generous pile into John’s hand, then his own. Both squint as they focus their aim on Brian.

Ed finds himself distracted by the blonde. He throws his head back onto the back of his seat frustratedly. “Craig’s going break up with me, isn’t he?” he realizes.

Erica sighs, searching in vain for a better outcome. “He might forgive you.”

He’d come clean once she’d returned from Bali, telling her how his hopes of cheering up a certain hungover drummer had escalated without warning. She’d also found herself suffering through a bizarre speech from Roger about ice cream flavors.

”I doubt it” Ed concludes, “Guess I should start finding a new apartment.”

Erica rolls her eyes. “You _want_ him to break up with you” she guesses.

Ed tuts, pretending to be scandalized by the suggestion. “Who the fuck _wants_ to be broken up with?” he splutters, incredulity unconvincing.

She casts her eyes to Roger, happily pelting Brian with peanuts, her beloved John his accomplice.

”Someone who’d rather be with someone else.”

* * *

There was some kind of memo delay on the top floor. _Typical_. Erica had prayed salvation of some kind might arrive before Mr. Michaels summoned her. Alas, she makes the painful walk to his office alone, reinforcing herself as strongly as her frayed nerves would allow.

He'd made sure to force Ed away, ordering him to direct two seniors from the Music department to some undisclosed business or other when they arrived on the floor. He'd barked at the employees in the surrounding offices all day, ensuring they'd keep their heads down and not risk another verbal beating were they to talk to Erica.

Mr. Michaels was exactly the type to fire a person for appearing in the papers, whether the claims made were legitimate or not. He'd been eager for an excuse ever since she arrived. It didn't help that the awful 'scarlet woman' story had been followed by another not long after she arrived in London again, this time revealing the anonymous heartbroken soul she'd abandoned in order to experience the infamy and attention that came with shacking up with a rockstar. Evidently, Matt's self-respect, _if he ever had any_ , had hit an all-time low.

Hesitating at her boss' door, Erica considers whether she ought to sweet-talk her way out of the scandal, behave as apologetically as possible in order to save herself. Immediately her skin crawls. _Fuck it_. She couldn't stand Mr. Michaels and didn't care if he knew it. She'd leave the BBC with her head held high.

Her blood on a low simmer, she strides in. The poor secretary he routinely harrassed, complaints often being hushed up, scurries away. She discreetly squeezes Erica's hand before she leaves the room, wishing her luck in hushed tones.

Erica perches down on the chair opposite her boss, confidently staring him down. The newest of the articles on her was spread out over his desk. He shoves a stubby finger into the paper, tobacco-stained teeth gritted. "I had many hesitations about sending you to Munich. At the very least it was a comfort to know you and that poof Ed Tetley were out of my hair for a while" he seethes, "What I didn't realize was that I was paying you to whore yourself out. "

Erica doesn't rise to the insult. Just keeps staring, hoping to elicit just a glimmer of fear.

"Well? Are you going to deny it?" Mr. Michaels snaps.

"That I'm a whore? Yes. That I'm shagging him? No"

He slams his fist down, steam billowing from his ears. "You're not employed to _sleep_ with your interviewees. Did you think it'd get you a better story? Before they started giving good men's jobs to people like _you_ , sweetheart, we had to work hard to climb the ladder."

"I know this seems odd to someone as emotionally challenged as you, sir, but I don't fuck him out of a sense of journalistic obligation."

"I don't want my reporters' private lives being opened up to filthy gossip" Michaels lectures, thumb-like face flushing a deep red, "This corporation has _standards_."

Her composure slips. "Then why does it employ you, sir?"

Mr. Michaels rises to his feet, leaning over his desk towards her with sullen, bloodshot eyes. For a moment she wonders whether he'll hit her. It obviously played on his mind, fists clenching at his portly sides with such force his knuckles turned white. Erica quietly loosens the heel on her left foot, alarmed she even had to consider defending herself.

Yet there was some delight in it, veins angrily popping beneath his skin as they did, this supposedly distinguished boss of hers practically convulsing in his own anal retentiveness. If it weren't for the slurs he usually hurled about, she'd have thought it a great shame Ed was missing the spectacle.

"Since we're on the subject of integrity, it's odd to hear you preach, sir. You did plant Matt with me deliberately, didn't you? Everyone on this floor knows he hates my guts" Erica points out, far beyond the point of caring, "I'm assuming you know he's the one behind all that _filthy gossip_ , too."

Michaels growls, storming over to the window, glowering at the cars that zipped by on the street below. He grumbles to himself for a second or two, stumped by the mere idea of someone challenging him. "Always been troublemakers, you and that _Tetley_. Never could keep your heads down like everyone else". _Not let themselves be bullied_ , in other words. "Serves me right, I 'spose, putting you in company like _that_. That fag, Mercury? Makes my stomach turn some of the things I hear about him-"

Erica's heel is in her hand now, concealed beneath the desk but ready for use if needed. "Don't ever insult my friends with words like that" she warns. Suddenly, the man is in her space again, bounding over to her side of the desk, shaking with rage. "Tell me what to do again, darling, and I'll-"

She rises to meet his height. "Go on, sir, don't let me stop you."

The office door bursts open with a bang. Erica prays it's a rescue of some kind, someone who'd see Mr. Michaels about to strike her and learn what a bastard he was.

Her luck runs dry. Dumping a box filled with the contents of what used to be his desk, Matt introduces himself to the argument. His eyes ablaze, he lurches forward, knocking the heel from Erica's hand. " _Bitch_ " he hurls, pushing her hard, cornering her in a frenzy. Panicked, Erica appeals to Mr. Michaels. Her boss doesn't move an inch, just watches on as the lawyer raises a hand to her. She braces for the pain, frozen in place.

The blow never lands.

Through squinted eyes Erica makes out three more figures rushing in, one catching Matt's fist in mid-air. The man yelps as his arm is twisted sharply, ringed fingers catching him hard around the jaw. "Not taking to your new unemployment then?" Ed spits at him, rubbing at his knuckles. Erica throws herself around him, whispering her overwhelming gratitude into his chest, her shakes starting to subside.

Mr. Michaels shifts nervously at the presence of the others in his office. " _Mrs. Aitkin. Mr. Reed_ " he nods, suddenly overcome with shyness, "Didn't expect to find you down here."

The two bosses, top commissioners in the Music department Erica had only passed in corridors before, glare. "We got a complaint about someone from legal you've been inviting to meetings. We fired him" Mrs. Aitkin replies sternly, casting a disgusted glance at Matt where he lay whimpering. "Mr. Reed, fetch security, would you? Tell them to keep a hold of this one until the police arrive". Her colleague agrees, stepping out again.

Mr. Michaels withdraws into himself, a vulnerable shell compared to his usual pompous stature. It was as though all the hot air he usually spewed had been let out at the prick of a pin, the knowledge that he was about as secure in his job as Matt finally dawning on him. Ed and Erica look on, amused. He deserved every bit of it.

"I think you and I ought to have a chat about why I could hear you screaming at an employee several doors down” Mrs. Aitkin says, forcing him back to his seat with the simple snap of her fingers.

Mr Reed emerges again with security on his heel. He gently takes Ed and Erica aside while Matt is escorted out.

”Seems the wrong time to mention it” Reed smiles, “But we’ve been reviewing your recordings from Munich. Very impressive stuff.”

The two reporters exchange hopeful glances, relieved to see their hard-work applauded for once.

”Lot of potential” he adds, “Actually, if you’ve got a minute, how’d you both fancy a quick chat?”

* * *

The gang clink their glasses together with a cheer.

”To the youngest Top of the Pops presenters in BBC history” Freddie congratulates, dramatically bowing to the newly promoted pair.

”And Radio 1 too, I hear” Brian beams, hugging each in turn, “Bloody well done.”

Erica could scarcely believe it, the perfect antidote to the awful confrontation she’d had with Matt and Mr. Michaels. She couldn’t wait to start on Top of the Pops. And a weekly slot on the radio chatting to celebrities sounded like perfection.

She gives Ed a kiss on the cheek. There was no one else she’d rather be partnered with.

Roger nudges the other man with his glass. He’d been ridiculously proud when he’d heard Ed had punched Matt. “You’re a good lad, Tetley” he compliments.

”I am, aren’t I?” Ed winks.

Erica notes the warmth of the gaze they share. It wasn’t just frivolous flirtation anymore. There was something deeper at work.

”I’m proud of you” John speaks quietly, leaning near while the others were distracted.

”Thank you” Erica says, lacing her fingers with his.

They’d hadn’t been afforded many private moments since their return to Britain. Often she’d yearn for paradise again and the two loving weeks they’d enjoyed in Bali.

Not that they needed far-off havens. No, being with one another anywhere was enough. Falling in love was a constant thrill.

”Oh, just _kiss_ her Deaky” Freddie tuts, “Stop acting like we’re not aware.”

“We’ve been on enough tours to know you’re not exactly quiet” Roger pokes. Comfortable in the drummer’s proximity again, Ed joins in. “I shared a house with Erica at uni” he shares, his usual cheeky expression plastered proudly across his face, “Truly, there are no walls thick enough.”

The two men laugh to themselves, obvious to the fact they were every bit as enamoured with each other as the couple they mocked.

Unfazed by the heat in her cheeks, Erica presses her lips to John’s, smiling against him as he wrapped his arms around her.

The group chat amongst themselves again, content now their suspicions had been confirmed. Jim cracks open another bottle of champagne, urging the celebrations on into the night.

”Fancy a sleepover tonight?” Erica proposes.

”Will there be any actual sleeping involved?” John murmurs, head resting comfortably against her shoulder.

”I hope so. I’m _knackered_ ”

Her eyes droop sleepily, the emotional exhaustion of the day starting to take hold. John pecks her neck softly. “Sounds good to me.”


	11. Top of the Pops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas arrives, bringing with it a Top of the Pops special and a classic Mercury party
> 
> Special appearances by Elton John, Def Leppard, and a few others

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drink responsibly! Even if it’s Christmas!

Though she’d just hit her head, Erica didn’t notice the pain. She’d bumped the wall in front a few times now.

”Sorry” John whispers apologetically, slowing in his maneuvers behind her. Erica reaches round with a sweaty palm to slap his behind, urging him on again. The concussion would be worth it. “Keep going” she breathes.

John pins her hand down on the table again, his own calloused fingers twisting into her hair, tugging lightly as he found his rhythm again.

More romantic locations existed, but there were few of those in the Top of the Pops studios. A storage cupboard had to do.

“Harder” Erica mumbles, time immaterial when she felt so good. She bites down a delighted whimper when John follows the command, clasping tightly at her curls. 

The feeling intoxicating, he presses her hard against the tabletop, stamina relentless, rough nails digging into the soft skin of her thighs. Not caring for the studio around her, Erica pleads for more still, that gorgeous high she needed on the horizon and creeping nearer with every deep thrust.

Her peak finds her hard and fast, the sensation pushing John over the edge with her.

Some minutes later, they scramble to their feet again, flushed and out of breath. After a brief bleary-eyed search around the cupboard, they find a roll of paper towels with which to clean themselves up. It was like the spot was meant for quickies.

Erica restores the skirts of her dress, doing her best to smooth out the creases that had formed while the fabric had been bunched around her waist. One minor restoration of her makeup and a generous spray of perfume later, she felt ready to re-emerge. "Quite insatiable for an old man, aren't you?" she quips.

John pins her with the same sultry look he'd worn when she pulled him into the cupboard. He retrieves a pair of discarded lace knickers and flings them at her. Ever amused by the power she seemed to hold over him, Erica slips them into his jacket pocket instead of putting them on. "Think I'll keep them there for now" she grins. With a low groan, he trails after her, eager to slip beneath her dress again now he knew there was nothing in his way.

He'd have to wait. The Top of the Pops Christmas special was one of the highlights of the BBC's festive programming.

After their initial trial, Ed and Erica had taken well to the format. It wasn't the most invigorating journalistic work, their role on the show largely restricted to introducing acts. But it was _fun_.

They'd been trusted with the bulk of responsibilities for the Christmas episode, much to their surprise.

Ready for duty, Ed stands ready, consulting his cue cards for the final time. "Hello, handsome" Erica coos, giving her friend's Santa costume the once-over.

"Piss off, you" he dismisses. He reaches over to flatten a crazed curl at the back of her head. "Have _fun_? Like working with teenagers this."

He wasn't resentful of the couple's happiness. Just, by his own admission, jealous he wasn't _getting any_. Craig had broken up with him as predicted. Erica had let him stay with her until he'd found a new place. 

"Pete Burns is never going to fancy me in this" Ed complains, fidgeting uncomfortably with the coarse white beard strapped to his face. He observes the _Dead or Alive_ singer from afar, where he socialized with the night's other acts. "Do you _want_ Pete Burns to fancy you?"

Ed shrugs. "He's quite cute."

Erica arches a brow cheekily. "So's Roger Taylor."

Her partner rolls his eyes, again ready to explain that anything that occurred between him and a certain drummer had been the result of excessive amounts of hard drugs. Reminding him that Roger had separated from his wife a short while later didn't do much to coax him, either. "He split up with her so he can sleep around guilt-free" Ed insists, " _Nothing more_."

Erica decides to leave it alone. For now. If it was meant to be, they'd work it out eventually.

"Good luck, love" John utters, pecking her on the cheek before disappearing into the crowds around her. Even Ed finds it in him to smile. They'd spent three months now as a _proper couple_ , and things were wonderful.

Cameras click into action, and a familiar theme tune sounds out. The studio comes alive, copious amounts of Christmas garlands and tinsel hung from every railing and lighting rig, the hordes of excitable music fans gathered around each stage cheering loudly. The show begins.

Erica summons her best impression of the Queen, drawling with insufferable poshness as though beginning the festive broadcast the royals gave every year. "My husband and I" she drones.

Ed nudges her. "Wrong show, dear," he says, "This is _Top of the Pops_ ". It was a well-rehearsed bit but the audience seemed to like it.

"Oh, well, welcome to this Christmas Day Top of the Pops" Erica goes on energetically, "We've got lots of number ones, lot's of bestsellers."

Her co-host gestures to the band getting ready nearby. "Let's kick things off with King, and _Love and Pride_."

An electronic drumbeat sounds out, the preppy boys of the group bursting forth with gusto, a neon blur of bright clothes and long hair. The surrounding teenagers dance, whooping every now and then, immersed in the party.

"Bit shit, isn't it?" John murmurs over his lover's shoulder. It was safe to reappear now the cameras had moved away. Swaying to the sting of synthesizers, Erica wraps his arms around her. "It's _fun_ " she counters, "Not everything has to be _Stairway to Heaven_."

John's lip curls suspiciously. "Seem a bit cocksure to me."

"Are you not aware of which band _you're_ in?"

Ed, by now reluctantly used to his Santa suit, introduces the next track, one of the dance highlights of the year. "Here's Colonel Abrams with _Trapped_."

The singer, dapper in his golden epaulets, jives curiously on the podium he stands on. John doesn't pick while the song plays, conceding it was actually quite good. He gives up his attempts to hide after a while, too, content to be another face in the crowd.

Alison Moyet's on next, crooning out a seductive bluesy number. "Erica fancies her" Ed volunteers.

"She's very lovely" the woman sighs wistfully, the subtle lighting of the stage giving the performance a beguiling quality that Erica assured herself had absolutely nothing to do with her having the hots for the singer. "I'll give you a hall pass" John jokes.

Erica takes the next intro, slipping in a lighthearted joke about how dishy she found the next artist. She could feel John moving nearer and nearer as she spoke, the comment reviving something in him.

What she doesn’t anticipate is a hand sliding slowly up the back of her leg, hesitating just beneath the black hem of her outfit, waiting for the cameras to pan away again. She tries in vain to concentrate on the act, John’s touch having travelled considerably, unrestrained while her panties were stuffed in his pocket.

He slows when it comes time to continue the show, only to resume the soft circles he draws once it was safe again. Erica struggles to maintain her composure, frustrated whenever he moved her fingers away, but excited by the prospect of getting _caught_.

To her great annoyance, John gives up entirely when the time arrives to sign the show off. He sucks his fingers where he knows she can spot him, glimmer of innocence in his eye, unaware of the silent revenge she vows.

”Merry Christmas, Erica” Ed wishes, lowering a branch of mistletoe between him and his friend. Erica kisses his cheek sweetly. “Merry Christmas, Ed.”

”And from all of us here at Top of the Pops-“

Ed counts the crowd in.

”Merry Christmas!”

The show’s theme tune picks up again. The pair congratulate each other on a successful show, the variety of talent they’d hosted suddenly swarming in around them.

Ed tears his fake beard off, making a beeline for Holly Johnson from Frankie Goes to Hollywood the second he sees him.

Erica catches one of the boys from Spandau Ballet wink at her. By his own invitation, the man saunters over. She glances back to John, by now absorbed in conversation with another musician.

Taking up the mistletoe, Erica teeters up to Tony Hadley and pecks him on the lips, chaste and quick, just enough of a display to win her beau’s attention back.

Revenge, for his torturing of her.

As quick as anything, John’s hand is in her own. He pulls her away from Tony Hadley, keeping a tight grip on her behind as they meander through the sea of people populating the studio.

Erica finds herself sat on the table in the storage cupboard again, trailing sloppy kisses along John’s jaw in between delighted chuckles. He grins wickedly, bunching her skirts up around her waist again.

”Where are you off to?” Erica quizzes, watching him sink to his knees.

He presses his lips to her inner thigh, gazing up at her with mischief on his mind.

”Early Christmas present.”

* * *

Freddie falls of his chair for a second time. On this occasion, it was hysterical laughter that toppled him, the spectacle of Elton John’s hat being blown off by the champagne cork he’d just released reducing him to tears.

Elton makes a leap after him, swearing retribution. The two men end up on the same piano stool, bickering harmlessly about who should get to play first.

Ed snorts into his drink, one of many he’d enjoyed at the party so far, wondering how he’d ever got so lucky as to enjoy company such as this.

”Not heading back up North for Christmas?” Roger asks, slipping tactfully into his space.

”The only family I really care about is down here” Ed acknowledges. He waves to Erica, now sat on Freddie’s lap while Elton played the intro to _Honky Cat_.

“I’m flattered” Roger winks.  
  
Ed knocks him playfully. “Arrogant cock.”

He takes a long swig of his whisky. “What are your goals for ‘86, then?”

Roger tugs at his lip thoughtfully. There was so much promise in a new year. The one just ending had been eventful enough. Ed was an inadvertent reminder of that.

”The tour going well would be great” Roger settles, “And the new record selling well.”

”Other than that, just the usual bollocks about finding _happiness_.”  
  
Inhibitions numbed by the alcohol, Ed offers him a comforting hand. “Are you particularly _unhappy_ right now?” he questions.

”No, actually” the drummer admits, lips toying with a coy smile, “Quite the opposite right now.”

Ed looks down at their intertwined fingers, warmed by a feeling he hadn’t realized he’d missed. His drunk tongue betrays his thoughts. “Fancy a smoke out back?” he offers.

Not that smoking was all there was to the proposition.

”Yeah, alright.”

Erica watches the pair step out together, hand-in-hand. They excuse their closeness off as _nothing_ to the partygoers they pass. Just a joke between friends.

She sees Ed lodge a fresh cigarette between Roger’s teeth, then the door onto the patio slides shut.

She hoped they had fun.

Gracefully, Fred slides Erica off his lap and sweeps his husband into a clumsy waltz. “Elton, darling, play something romantic” he barks, “I want Jim to fall in love with me all over again.”

Elton nods graciously, serenading the couple with a beautiful melody. Jim smiles into his partner’s shoulder. “I do that every day, love.”

Erica watches them dance for a little while, their love infectious, before returning to her own love.

Along with Brian, John had been caught up in a lengthy test of wills with the members of Def Leppard. Joe Elliot had declared the winner would earn the right to name the other’s next album.

He was under the table by the time Erica rejoins them, snoring soundly with a half-empty bottle of Jack pressed against his cheek.

Casting apologetic glances towards his wife with every shot he downed, Brian holds fast. “I just think you should name it another ‘ _ia_ ’ word” he voices, “ _Pyromania_ worked so well.”

Erica assumes Joe’s place, accepting the enormous glass of straight vodka offered to her by one of his band mates. “ _Schizophrenia_ ” she says, the first word to spring to mind.

” _Anaesthesia_ ” John shouts, slamming his glass onto the table as though it was something genius. 

“Keep trying, Deacon, you’re getting nowhere near our next fucking album” Rick Savage pokes.

Defiantly, John knocks the top of off a bottle of tequila, pouring himself several shots’ worth. He downs it in one, flinging the empty glass at the other bassist triumphantly.

Erica gulps through her own drink in solidarity, having already accepted the hangover she’d wake up with tomorrow.

Brian is less successful in his attempts to join the idiotic display, managing only one more sip of liquor before falling off his chair. His wife bundles him into a taxi shortly after.

The other band concedes defeat graciously.

John lifts Erica onto his shoulders, parading her around the room while onlookers gave congratulatory high fives, most simply astounded the pair could drink so much and remain upright.

They stop by the record player on their little tour, slipping a Wham! “45 under the needle. The infectious tune of _Last Christmas_ blasts out. Elton flips them off, his prowess at the piano interrupted.

Having vaulted herself back to the ground, bafflingly coordinated for a drunk woman in heels, Erica leads John outdoors, to the promise of fresh air and a little quiet.

She promptly takes him to another side of the garden when she notices a certain couple pressed against the outer wall. Best to leave them in peace, she thought.

Roger had Ed in a close embrace, hands cupping either side of his face. Her friend had forgotten his cigarette, burning itself out on the concrete while he kept a steady hold on the other man’s middle.

Good for them.

“I’ve got an idea” John announces, fumbling about his pockets for a cigarette of his own.

”Water?” Erica sips on the bottle of the stuff she’d swiped on her way out, keen to ease the spinning feeling growing in her head.

“Move in with me” John springs.

Erica splutters, grasping the branch of one of Jim’s neatly tended trees for balance. “You’re pissed, John.”

”I mean it” he says, eyes widening at the idea.

Drunk words were sober thoughts, she supposed.

”We’ve been going out for _three months_ ” Erica reminds him. They worked well as they were, always making time for one another despite their considerable workloads.

Besides, she liked her little apartment, and the independence it allowed her.

”Just think about it” John urges, “ _Please_?”

He smiles goofily, drunk and stupid and totally in love. Makes a part of her want to agree to the proposal in a heartbeat.

But she holds back for now.

”Okay, I’ll think about it. No promises though.”

John sweeps her into a clumsy hug, swinging her around as though overjoyed she’d even _consider_ the proposal.

The hour strikes four, and Erica finds herself propping the man up in the back of a cab. She gives her address to the driver. John had mentioned earlier that his kids were spending the weekend with their mother, and she was quite eager to spend the night in her own bed after the night she’d had.

She picks the bits of grass and moss from her pants. John had dropped her not long after he’d picked her up.

”Who’s this?” he mumbles, raising his head as the taxi driver turned his radio up.

 _Thank God it’s Christmas._ One of his own creations.

”They’re quite good” he compliments.

Erica giggles, wrapping her leather jacket around his shoulders, cradling him as the late hour took hold.

”They’re alright I suppose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love your comments as always :)


	12. Happy at Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian makes a new acquaintance. Ed and Roger make a commitment. John and Erica navigate a recurring problem.

"It's three o'clock, Friday the 18th of April 1986. And we are back with the lovely Anita Dobson."

Ed gestures theatrically to their guest. The delightful red-head graciously bows, a natural behind the microphone. Erica could see why much of the country was enamored with her. She wasn't a particularly dedicated Eastenders fan herself, but there was something quite wonderful about the actress. Having her on was quite a coup.

Theirs was one of the most popular shows on Radio 1 now. After some trial and error, the pair had achieved a winning formula. They were easy-going in their interview technique, their aim to make guests relax into casual conversation rather than drill them with hard-hitting questions. Not that the hours of airtime gifted to them were totally spent on idle chatter. They discussed politics as much as the BBC's impartiality rules would allow, and the issues faced by their respective communities.

They hadn't been any major scandals so far. The occasional accident curse word, but nothing dreadful.

"Just before we broke for commercial, we were looking over the tabloids, weren't we?" Ed rattles on, quite the broadcasting pro by now, "This particular paper seems to think you're pregnant, Erica."

Erica pats her vaguely rounded stomach. "Just too many cakes," she remarks. It wasn't a dramatic change, still only just noticeable in close-fitting clothes, but apparently enough for the more intrusive members of the industry to pick on.

She'd been in a happy relationship for seventh months now. A little extra weight from lavish dinner dates and take-outs in front of the telly went hand in hand with domestic bliss.

"What's the worst thing you've seen written about you, Anita?"

The actress clasps her hands together in thought. "All the gossip on me is quite _boring_ " she sighs disappointedly, "I'd like something quite outrageous. A secret affair or something."

"As this program's resident homewrecker, I say go for it" Erica jokes. She'd suffered through a few more Matt-sourced embarrassments over the last few months, but her notorious _scarlet woman_ image was starting to fade in favor of better headlines now. It was Ed she was concerned for. He'd been snapped leaving clubs and restaurants with Roger a lot in recent times, though it was automatically assumed they were just _friends_.

The _benefits_ part was neglected. They hooked up when they could.

"Is it really too much to ask for a good coke and prostitutes story?" Ed laments.

An angry producer knocks on the glass.

"Shocking teenage pregnancy?"

Another knock. The producer holds two fingers up. His second strike.

"I'm going to shut up now."

He doesn't, instead initiating a discussion about the difficulties of dating while in the limelight.

"They photograph you with anyone and assume you must be in a relationship," Anita scoffs, relating numerable mentions of her name with other actors' in the typically greasy gossip columns of the British press. All male, naturally. Some desperate journalists seemed to be willingly ignorant of the idea of men and women being _friends_. Indeed, Ed and Erica had been most amused when an anonymous source had claimed they were lovers.

Ed had stated on air the next day that while he considered Erica very lovely he was most definitely a raging homosexual.

"Now, Anita, I think you have a record for us," Erica says, eyeing the clock hanging on the wall. It would be the end of the show soon.

In the mixing room next door a freshly-printed single is lowered onto a record player, a sound engineer ready to set the needle down onto it. One of the masters that had been made in Munich.

"I don't want to seem like I'm sucking up to present company, but this is one of my favorites at the moment" Anita gushes, " _A Kind of Magic_ by Queen."

"Well, one more spin of a Queen record is another penny in the pocket of John Deacon" Ed nods, "And by extension, another cake in the belly of Erica Salib."

* * *

Buoyed by another successful afternoon, Ed and Erica make fond farewells to their guest. "Give me a ring" Anita urges, pressing a phone number into Erica's hand, "We'll go for coffee."

She'd thoroughly enjoyed the other woman's company. And it seemed she was a fan of the band, too. She could imagine Freddie taking to the actress well, and the rest of the gang. Maybe she ought to invite her round sometime? One of their weekly Scrabble tournaments perhaps?

Ed glances at his watch, other plans on his mind. "Need to be off now."

His colleague nudges him with a wink. Her co-host had been preening himself all day. "Hot date?" she taunts.

"I might be seeing a guy" Ed smiles coyly.

Anita claps her hands excitedly. "Is he gorgeous?" 

"The drop-dead kind."

He makes his excuses and climbs into a taxi, practically skipping along the sidewalk. It was obvious to Erica that it wasn't just sex he sought out in Roger. Ed was perfectly aware he was an attractive man. Pulling rarely required much effort on his part. It was keeping Roger around that he seemed to fret over.

Another taxi pulls up. From the backseat pops Brian, cheerfully waving in his fist two tickets to the astronomy lecture he'd agreed to take her to. Erica looks to Anita to say goodbye, then notices her expression. _Starstruck_ , reduced to a wide-eyed gaze as the guitarist moves his lanky frame toward them. She really was a fan, wasn't she? Not that Erica's reaction had been much different when first she saw the band in the flesh.

"Oh, blimey" Brian exhales upon spotting the woman standing beside his friend, " _Hi_."

Anita shakes his extended hand animatedly, grin infectious. "Hi" she practically squeals, "My God, look at your _hair_. It's wonderful"

Brian flicks a long strand of curls over his shoulder self-consciously. He seems to eye Anita with the same bubbling electricity she focused on him. Erica's brow quirks up involuntarily. She'd no idea Brian watched Eastenders.

She thought she'd heard his wife mention the show, though other things had been on her mind of later. It had become apparent in the run-up to Christmas that she'd fallen pregnant not long before the band left for Munich. She was ready to burst by now, her due date less than a month away.

"We're just off to a lecture" Brian explains, deaf to the pleas of the waiting taxi driver for him to hurry up, "About the potential for intelligent life on other planets."

Erica was certain she could hear Ed decrying her as a nerd several blocks away.

"That sort of thing doesn't mean much to me" Anita admits, "I hope you two have a wonderful time, though". If anyone else had said such a thing, Brian would have scoffed. Given some disapproving reaction, even if sarcastically. Apparently, the actress was exempt from such judgment.

Somewhat reluctantly the two part company, Erica assuring Anita once more she'd call sometime soon. It would be a pleasure to enjoy her company again. Her companion thought so too, only half-listening while she read through the lecture pamphlet.

"She seems nice" he eventually concedes, wrenched from whatever daydreams his mind wandered into by the taxi's abrupt stop at a set of stoplights.

"Very pretty."

Brian jerks his head indifferently, pretending unsuccessfully he hadn't already made the observation himself. "Yes, I suppose so."

* * *

Ed yelps. He inspects the cluster of eyebrow hairs he'd yanked out with his tweezers. He'd only intended on pulling one stray out, but then there'd been a knock on the door.

He checks his watch and curses. Roger was _early_ , considerably so. He'd managed a shower at least since leaving the BBC studios, but he hadn't quite settled on an outfit yet. He'd asked himself why he bothered with each shirt and pant he'd cast aside. They'd chat, shag, and go their separate ways again before dawn.

Ed regrets having that reality planted in his mind when he lets the drummer in. A casual liaison had been fun at first, what seemed like a natural progression after their intense fumblings at Freddie's Christmas party. But it wasn't enough anymore, and he hadn't a clue how to admit it.

"Thought you were taking someone out tonight?" he questions hollowly, shuffling over to the uncorked bottle of wine he'd prepared earlier, " _Donna_? _Delia_?"

He knew exactly what the woman was called.

" _Debbie_ " Roger answers, fetching two wine glasses from their usual spot. He notices Ed pour himself a much larger amount than normal. His whole energy seemed askew. 

They sip at their drinks in silence, a stark contrast to the usual joking and flirting they enjoyed in those before moments.

"What happened?" Ed poses, staring off at nothing in particular, "Not busty enough?"

"Actually, I canceled."

Roger drums his hands anxiously on the countertop, gradually itching towards the younger man's with each dull beat. Ed moves away before he can lace his fingers into his own.

Unwillingly Ed's thoughts take a more bitter form. "Why bother with the expense of dinner when you have an easy lay waiting for you right here" he fires.

With a huff Roger sinks into the sofa, maintaining some distance between him and his would-be lover. "I actually came over here to _say_ something" he complains, "Might not bother now."

Ed swallows half his glass in one almighty gulp. "Good. I don't care."

Like a scolded child the drummer folds his arms across his chest. To think he'd come over with an entire speech prepared in his head. " _Fine_."

"Oh, out with it, tart."

Roger studies the pout Ed wears, soft lips puckered while he grumbled some profanity or other to himself. The agitated poise with which he held himself accentuated his fine form, long legs crossed demurely, silky smooth fingers idly tracing the trail of his cheekbones. In the faint lamplight, he was beautiful, complexion perfectly even, ginger curls hanging fashionably just above his eyes.

Maybe he hadn't forgotten the entire speech. He resurrects what he can, the alluring nature of this dashing friend of his the ideal reminder.

"I'm done sleeping around" he proclaims.

Ed doesn't look up from his wine. "Celibacy? Very brave of you."

" _No_ " Roger counters, "Sleeping around with _other_ people."

"It isn't an easy lay I have waiting for me here. A fucking spectacular one, if I may say". Ed feels a smug smile prick at the corner of his lips. "But that isn't all you are to me. I love spending time with you. _Talking_ to you. High or sober, you're a delight. I _want_ you around."

Ed meets his gaze, abandoning all petty attempts to freeze him out. Roger had looked at him before like he was the most wonderful man in the world, usually in those sweet, sleepy moments they enjoyed after a passionate night together. Some anxiety or other usually crept up when he climbed out of bed, the confirmation that the musician was seeing other people forcing him to question the validity of those looks.

But this was real. Pure and simple, Roger adored him.

Ed finishes what remains of his wine and leaps across the couch, pulling the other man into a graceless kiss. Roger responds immediately, ditching his own drink to roll him over, pinning him to the cushions, an eager tongue sliding over his bottom lip.

Yearning for the brush of skin against his, Ed jerks the drummer's shirt from his pants, running his hands freely over the small of his back then down to his taut behind. Roger nips at his neck, the euphoric shiver he feels in response forcing his hand ever nearer to his lover's zipper.

"I know you said you love talking to me" Ed breathes heavily, "But can we have sex first as normal?"

Roger nods wordlessly, itching to feel him, to snake his fingers about his cock, to show him just how deep his feelings truly ran.

And so, much to his surprise, Ed Tetley ends his latest _hot date_ with a new boyfriend.

* * *

John pokes a spatula at the mess of scrambled egg and bacon sizzling in the pan. On the other side of the kitchen, a kettle clicks loudly, steam billowing from its top. He'd already prepared the cups. Coffee and one sugar for himself, and tea and a splash of milk for Erica.

He feels the woman tread near, dressed only in an oversized t-shirt she'd stolen from a shipment of incoming tour merch, her hair crazed after an especially wild night in that only a lengthy lie-in could relieve. She curls her slender arms about his middle, resting her head in the crook of his neck. "That smells good" she purrs, sleepily breathing in the rousing scent of a warm breakfast.

She fetches two clean plates for him but quickly resumes her previous position, molding her body to his while he cooked. John divides the food equally, internally calculating how quickly he could scoff it down so he could return his attention to the girl pressed against him. "You coming back to bed?" Erica challenges, biting into a rasher of bacon. She slowly licks the grease from her fingers, emphasizing each sound right by his ear.

It takes all John has not to inhale his breakfast and carry her back to his room. He knew what stopped him. Erica didn't.

"Morning, Dad". A boy no more than ten suddenly makes his presence known at the kitchen table.

Erica jumps back, pulling her top down as far as the fabric would allow. Her cheeks flush furiously. She hadn't realized there had been others in John's house when she arrived late the previous night.

The child digs at his cereal, unphased. He'd met his father's new girlfriend months previously. John had never introduced her as such, though, explaining only that she was a _close friend_. Of course, the boy was smarter than that.

"Is mum coming over today?" he asks sweetly.

Erica feels her nerves jolt for a different reason.

"Not today, mate" John answers, "Tomorrow."

"Is it because Erica's here?" his son quizzes, "She said there was something in the paper about her being the reason why we don't all live together anymore."

Uneasiness makes way for nausea. Helpless, Erica looks to John. _Fuck_. Did John's kids hate her? Did his ex-wife hate her? She'd thought she'd shaken off her reputation as a marriage-ending whore by now. She'd certainly trusted John to dispel any such conclusions within his family. They'd never done anything untoward, nothing behind anyone's backs. Why did this follow her everywhere she went?

"That's enough of that" John reprimands, "Finish your breakfast and get your things ready for karate. Emily's mum will be here soon to collect you."

The child inhales the rest of his cereal and dashes upstairs, muttering ecstatically to himself about what incredible kicks and tricks he'd learn in his next lesson.

Numbly Erica scratches a fork at her eggs. It takes John several shovelfuls to notice there's something wrong.

"He's a kid," he says, "He doesn't understand."

"He thinks I'm the reason his mum isn't around anymore."

"He isn't angry at you if that's what you think" John assures her, "He's very mature for his age."

Guilt nags at her, cruelly clawing at the walls she'd built since her initial scares with the press. "Why would your ex tell him what the papers have been saying? Does she want them to hate me?" She lets her fork clatter to her plate, clenched teeth biting nervously at her nails.

The thought of the former Mrs. Deacon resenting her made her blood run cold. She casts her sights back to the time John had sprung his divorce on her in Bali, how he'd been totally confident in shutting the door on a decade-strong marriage in order to commit to her.

"Ronnie doesn't hate you. She's quite keen to meet you, actually" John assesses.

Somehow that makes Erica feel worse.

Something else toys with her thoughts now.

"Does she come here often?" she hears herself ask.

"Only to visit the kids while they're with me". He catches the look she gives, the true meaning of the question obvious even if she didn't intend it. "Nothing else."

Erica tries again with her breakfast. It tasted as good as it smelled. A small distraction from the temperamental commentary her conscience spieled. She polishes off most of it without even thinking.

Her anxiety subsides, replaced now by the feeling of John's toe poking at her leg beneath the table.

"Got a late start today" he reveals, "That meeting got pushed back to this afternoon". He's visibly relieved.

What time he didn't spend recording new music videos with the other boys he spent planning their rapidly approaching tour. The album had been met with glowing reviews. Sales were better than they'd ever been. And in June they'd begin a steady trot around the continent, playing their new creations to thousands at a time.

Lengthy tours didn't seem to appeal to him as they had previously.

"I'm not in again until next week. The lighting company's on strike" Erica says.

They stay still for a while, listening out for any incoming children. Thankfully, in a house so large, and at such an early hour, it was easy to take advantage of silence.

John clears his throat loudly. He stirs his coffee. "You know that thing you did the other day" he mentions shyly.

Erica quickly files through the various acts of depravity she'd been guilty of lately. She settles on one particularly vivid memory, of her leisurely trailing an ice cube down to his navel before lapping each drop of freezing water up, cussing him when he wriggled.

"Do you think you could do that with coffee?"

"You're so British" she sighs.

John shrugs, fixing her to her chair with a twinkle in his eye. "You could use some of that Arabic you know to make it a little less so" he suggests.

"Did you like that?" Erica giggles. She'd suspected he might when she'd first whispered the words in his ear. Admittedly, it wasn't quite what her mother had intended when she'd made it her first language as a child.

"What was it you called me?" John asks, nimbly sliding his foot along her thigh. She knew damn well he'd memorized it, but didn't mind speaking it again.

She parts her legs ever so slightly, glad to have emerged in her little t-shirt now, her fears about being the other woman locked away for another time.

" _Habibi_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched this video on the word habibi and it's very interesting! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r-STmIIdrSs
> 
> All thoughts welcome as always :)


	13. Family Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group gather to celebrate Brian's new arrival. An argument between Erica and John reaches an intense end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love Action by The Human League  
> (Please watch https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HnjLlDY_xww, I can imagine Ed looking like this at university)
> 
> Also features The Rolling Stones

The discussion had taken a rapid downwards turn when the traffic began to build up.

Perhaps stupidly, she realized, Erica had opted to drive John and herself to Brian's house. A gift sat on the backseat, wrapped in teddy bear-adorned paper, finished off with a neat yellow bow.

Brian and his wife had welcomed a healthy baby girl. The group was gathering together to say hello.

Erica suspected it was this that put John in such a frame of mind. Since the announcement, he'd started slipping talk of the _future_ into conversation. Little things at first, like how he imagined himself buying a home in the country when his touring commitments slowed, perhaps in the Kent village Erica had grown up in. Then, when in the right mood, his imagination would start to run riot, comments about his hopes to have more children popping up out of nowhere.

She'd changed tact where she could, or gave vague responses. Her head was just in a totally separate place. 

Trapped within the small confines of her beaten-up old car, gripped by the intense throttle of road rage, this reality seemed to amplify.

"I'm not saying you have to follow us for the entire tour" John reasons, "But you could fly out for a couple of shows."

Erica slams her hand onto her car horn, another driver having just cut her off on a busy lane. "I've got _work_ , John" she repeats, "The station wants Ed and I to start doing three shows a week. "

Their superiors at the BBC had assessed the listening figures and decided they were worthy of a slot on Wednesdays and Sundays too. The Sunday program, in particular, was undergoing considerable adjustment, extended to three hours from their usual one, and featuring exclusive interviews with all the artists they'd introduced on that week's Top of the Pops.

They'd been promised more if they continued to perform well.

"So I'm not going to see you for over a month?" John scorns.

"We can talk on the phone" Erica offers, "And I'll go to all your London dates". What else could she do? Hers and Ed's careers were in a good place. _Fantastic_ , given their age. She wouldn't jeopardize it by zipping to Europe and back week after week, no matter how madly she'd miss him.

John sighs, looking out to the bleak mid-May goings-on passing him by along the sidewalk. Erica wonders if she'd be more sympathetic if she wasn't battling traffic. "I'm sorry if your job is more important than mine" she mumbles. A petty jibe, she recognized, but she couldn't help herself.

John's expression contorts to one of genuine anger now, a rare occurrence. "I didn't say that."

"You're acting like I'm trying to _avoid_ you."

Pettiness ran both ways, apparently.

"Like you avoided the question about us moving in together?”

”I’d have been content with a simple _no_. Though I suppose the deafening silence was a _no_ in itself.”

Erica hits the horn again. There was no irresponsible driver in front of her. It was just a convenient way of venting her frustrations.

”I wasn’t ready, John. I’m still not” she confesses. She takes a deep breath, her first in too long. “Look, I understand that you might be eager for all that because it happened so quickly the first time-“

John groans, head sinking into his hands. If moving too fast was her gripe, this was his.

”Why does it _always_ come back to Ronnie?”

Erica didn’t consider herself the jealous type, suspicious neither. She hated herself for how put-out she felt whenever she learned his ex-wife had called by. She was the mother of his children, why shouldn’t she?

Was she threatened by the other woman? Afraid they’d smooth things out with all the time they spent together?

What if John got fed up waiting for her to figure out what she wanted in life?

She buries the paranoia deep within, locking it away, nervous of what it would turn her into. John had done nothing to make her believe its cruel whisperings. They weren’t worth the energy.

”Just forget I said anything.”

”I will, until some bullshit or other turns up in the magazines and we have this exact argument _again_.”

“This isn’t an argument, it’s a _colorful debate_.”

John laughs, disbelieving at first then genuine. The sound is delightful, coming out in warm giggles. Makes Erica grin foolishly. 

They don’t talk much for the rest of the drive, not daring to disrupt the peace they’d arrived at.

A further blessing, they don’t appear too jaded by their discussion by the time they turn up at Brian’s. Both make a conscious effort to appear content and cheerful as they wait on the doorstep.

The new member of the May household was gorgeous.

With inquisitive hazel eyes, she studies the faces of each person who holds her. Tiny brown curls cling to her head. Erica didn’t usually take to babies very well, their fragility and dependence alarming to her. This one was adorable though, exuding in her rosy pink cheeks and cheerful countenance all the calm and warmth her father gave off.

She would have cradled the child for the entire afternoon if she hadn't caught John's eyes darting between her and the bundle wrapped in her arms. He was most likely oblivious to it, but there was a twinkle in his eye, the sort that usually proceeded a broody remark of some fashion. She gently passes the girl to her Uncle Freddie, who coos softly.

"Oh, she's _beautiful_ " he beams, beckoning Jim near. The baby wraps a chubby fist around one of his fingers. "I want one". Jim's eyebrows shoot up.

Freddie kisses him lovingly. "Another _cat_ , at least."

Sat comfortably on another couch, Roger slings an arm around his new partner's neck. "You're not going to start getting all broody on me, are you?" he knocks. Ed dismisses the thought with a cackle, quickly holding up a defensive hand to Brian to show he meant no disrespect. "Not bloody likely" he derides, "Maybe one day, I suppose."

Roger rubs his knee fondly.

They'd been a couple for barely a month, and they were quite comfortable joking about the future. Erica started to suspect it was _her_ that had a problem. She was eight months into her relationship with John and the prospect of what the years to come might hold frightened her.

It made for an anxious cocktail in her head, the ever-hanging threat of the media over her private life not doing much to comfort her.

"Any thoughts on names?" John asks, Freddie now having passed the newborn to his bandmate. He's tender in his hold on her, supporting her head with a steady hand. He smooths out the pink blanket around her, tucking it just beneath her chin.

He was a good father himself. Erica had seen as much since she'd been with him.

" _Emily_ " Brian's wife says, sleepily resting her head on her husband's shoulders.

Freddie cups his face with his hands, grinning in delight at the little bundle of joy. He sinks into Jim's arms, planting a kiss on the back of the other man's hand as he wrapped him up in a cozy embrace. "We have a niece, Jim" he glows, "Get reproducing, the rest of you. I want the studio full of babies when we get back."

Erica laughs along with the rest, praying they didn't notice the fear in her eyes.

* * *

With an even hand, Ed swipes a final line of shadow over his eyelid. He inspects his work in the mirror, puckering his red-painted lips for good measure. He turns to his audience triumphantly, sashaying over to the coffee table on an imaginary catwalk. He hadn't worn makeup since his New Romantics phase earlier in the decade. It felt good.

 _Love Action_ by The Human League played in the background for extra effect.

"Fucking hell" Roger breathes, visibly impressed, "You're _pretty_."

Ed blows a kiss to him, momentarily lost in the beat, and the memories they evoked. 

Watching him parade about, stunning as always, Erica sinks back into her university days. The simpler times when she'd done his makeup for him and taken him clubbing, maybe bring guys or girls home with them, not caring that they had urgent work to hand in the following morning. Days back then were spent having fun and nothing else. More than ever she hankered for that.

Adulthood drummed up so many questions that she felt abysmally unprepared for.

"So you two have already had the whole _future_ talk, then?" she poses suddenly.

Ed shimmies over to her, collapsing gracelessly into his boyfriend's lap. "Well we thought it was worth asking what we both _wanted_ in a relationship" he admits, "Just in case there was anything we disagreed on."

"We're a bit weird though."

He leans over to bite the tip of Roger's nose.

"John's a family man" the drummer states.

The phrase had been repeated often in the coverage of Erica's supposed ruining of his marriage. He'd never been embroiled in anything especially scandalous until he'd met her.

"I know he had the whole wholesome wife and kids thing with his wife" she offers, "And that's lovely, but-"

Roger shakes his head. "He was always like that, though, even before he was married. That's just what he's like."

"It's sweet" Ed chips in.

"I know it is. I like it too. But-"

Her friends wait patiently while she searches for the right words.

"I suppose I just feel bad that I'm not there yet. I'm not opposed to having kids. And I'd definitely like to get married". She claws at her curls. It was an issue rapidly approaching, one that only seemed to grow the more time she spent with John. "I told him I was in _love_ with him after barely any time at all. I thought the rest would be just as easy."

Ed regards his own love with pride. There'd been no confessions of love for them yet, but the feeling was obvious from the way they looked at one another. "You can be in love with him and still not know what you want from him" he reasons, an infrequent act of maturity, "You're twenty-three. You're not obliged to have it all figured out."

Roger nods in agreement, absentmindedly laying a firm grip on his partner's booty short-clad behind. "It'll probably just occur to you one day" he voices, "The best things happen when you don't plan them". He peers at Ed adoringly, seized by recollections of how they'd come to be a couple. He presses his lips to her colleague's cheek, slow and sensual.

They'd happened out of nowhere. Perhaps her thoughts on where she and John should go next would appear to Erica in a similarly spontaneous way?

"Right, are we off to see the Rolling Stones or what?" Ed declares, jumping up suddenly, "Mick Jagger will surely despair if he's parted from me for much longer."

Erica checks her watch. She peeks into her bag to scan for a tape recorder. It was there, ready for use. The latest of their major projects for the BBC, spending time with another mammoth band. The prospect of meeting more heroes distracted her just enough for her to get excited.

"You take Jagger, I'll take Richards" she cracks.

"What about Ronnie Wood?"

"He can share us."

* * *

Spending time with the Stones had, inadvertently, sparked a minor discovery of self in Erica. Their latest album, _Dirty Work_ , covered, she and Ed had relaxed in their new company, finding the band to be as fun as they were billed.

They were all shameless flirts, which they loved. 

Questions exhausted, tape in her recorder spent and ready for editing, Erica had observed one member bust out a hefty stash of marijuana. Philosophical debate had somehow followed, everyone's minds trapped in an easy-going, existential haze, and queries all had not dared to make while sober. She could just about recall her rambling to the others about her worries.

She knew she'd launched into a monologue at some point, during which she'd reaffirmed her love for John, stronger than she'd ever had for a romantic partner, and decided upon agreeing to his proposal of moving in together.

Roger had claimed the true desires of the heart usually sprang themselves on their victims unwittingly. Perhaps a spur of the moment decision would point her in the right direction?

This conclusion in mind, she excitedly gets ready, pinning to her ears the expensive earrings she'd treated herself to for the occasion. She runs her hands over her the curve of her hips, close and barely concealed in the tight black number she wore. One sultry whip of her raven hair later, umber skin aglow, she was ready to greet her date.

They'd managed a table at an exclusive Italian restaurant in town. The venue at which they'd officially mark eight months since their escape to Bali.

She finds John, handsome in a tie-less suit, crouched over _The Daily Mail_. The paper had been bought by mistake during a hurried dash about the supermarket. She hadn't opened it yet. John had.

_' **HEARTBREAK FOR TOP OF THE POPS BABE AS QUEEN BASSIST REUNITES WITH EX-WIFE.** We reveal the latest gossip as sources claim the Deacons have rekindled a secret passion'_

In bold black ink, it was easily readable over his shoulder. A photo of her casually sitting back with Charlie Watts appeared beneath it. Next to that was a paparazzi shot of John leaving the airport upon their return from Munich, face covered as he tried to fend off the chorus of flashing cameras.

"It's all bullshit," John says.

Her surroundings fading into a depressed monochrome, Erica shakes her head. She's left her bedroom feeling phenomenal. How quickly she'd deflated.

"Then why do you look so sad?"

Silently she drops into the seat beside him, vision searching desperately for just the smallest inclination of what was on his mind.

He doesn't patronize her with anymore lies.

"Ronnie and I, we've been trying so hard to maintain a happy relationship. For the kids' sake," he relays, staring straight ahead, "It's been hard. We don't love each other, certainly not like we used to". He doesn't need to add a _but_. It was a given.

Nausea overriding her, Erica returns to her feet, stepping numbly forward, no destination in mind. In the absence of anything else, mindless fury strikes at her core. The frustrations she'd developed over recent weeks coming to fruition. "But _what_?" she growls, "There's just enough between you for you to _fuck_ her?"

John jumps up at the accusation, hurt brandished across his fair features. "I didn't _fuck_ her" he contests, "There was an odd moment the other week. We both felt lonely. She kissed me. She didn't mean it-"

"Did you kiss her back?"

"Yes."

Erica didn't waste time congratulating him on his honesty. She was too quickly swayed by the feeling of a blinding weight hitting her chest.

"It was a stupid lapse of judgment. I don't know why it happened, and I'm not going to insult you by pretending I do."

One particular word stands out to Erica. "Why would you feel _lonely_?" she asks, "I spend every moment I can with you."

Was she not good enough? It was a thought she didn't expect to find herself contemplating while she was with John. She'd felt so secure with him. What the fuck happened?

John tears open his top button, face pale as though he grappled for air. He hated the situation as much as she did. "You've been different lately. Ever since Brian's daughter arrived, it's like you've been avoiding me somehow. Like you’re worried whatever you say you’ll be dragged into some deep discussion about _us_.”

Erica pours herself a generous glass of the scotch lying nearby. “Because that’s _beyond_ you” she swipes, “You have no idea do you? The way you look at me when you start talking about the future? The damn glimmer in your eye when you saw me holding Brian’s kid?”

”I’m glad you’ve got it all figured out. I haven’t.”

John steps towards her, reinforcing himself with a deep breath. “And that’s _fine_ ” he argues, ”I look at you like that because I love you. I’m _mad_ for you.”

”So I’m under some kind of obligation to go along with your vision of happy families?” Erica challenges, too caught up in her own deliberations to gauge whether she made any sense.

”Not at all” John reasons, “And I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel as though you are.”

Erica downs her whisky, the sting of the liquor just strong enough to make her face him. “If you’re mad for me, I must be insane for you” she laughs humorlessly.

After a brief silence, she reaches out placatingly.

”We have something wonderful here” she says, “Can’t we just enjoy it until we’re ready for something else?”

Earnestly John considers it, a small smile etching on his lips at the idea of trooping on as normal. The usual routine of staying at each other’s homes every other day, shagging, enjoying each other’s companionship, going to work and sharing the stresses they endured.

His face falls quicker than anything.

Would the routine ever end?

”I’m starting to think you don’t want anything else” he admits.

Several feelings overcome her in a sporadic burst. Guilt, because the conclusion might well be true. Confusion, because she’d so readily surrendered her heart to him in Bali. Outrage, that he’d consider her point of view only to throw it in her face again.

Fury wins the day. Seizing the newspaper into a crinkled clump, she presses it into his chest.

”If you’re too impatient to find out, why don’t you fuck off back to _her_?” she cries.

John stares at her wide-eyed, breath baited. They’d never let the argument progress this far before.

He tears away the paper, shreds falling at their feet, countering her furious grip with strong arms. “I don’t want _her_ ” he reinforces, “I want _you_.”

Erica contemplates shoving him away. Letting him now how betrayed she felt upon hearing he’d kissed her.

Instead she pulls him nearer, locking him into a fiery embrace. Tears stinging her eyes she rips his shirt open, tense fingers digging into his skin.

Mouths melded in a thoughtless attack, John backs her against the sitting room wall, diving his hand to the clothed spot between her thighs, digging his blunt nails into the most tender spots.

Erica rips the belt from his waist. She shoves an indelicate hand into his pants, grasping him hard, biting at his bottom lip in between unforgiving strokes.

He responds in kind, slipping beneath her panties to appreciate her fully. She conceals a moan into his shoulder. “Don’t hold it in” he barks. She obeys, high-pitched whines soon tumbling from her lips. She increases the strength of her own movements, savoring each and every grunt and curse he utters.

Erica wraps her thighs about his middle, the plaster of the wall cool on her back. John snaps the straps of her dress aside. He wastes no time in worshipping the velvet skin now revealed to him, the fabric having fallen past her breasts.

She pushes frantic hands against his shoulders, his neck, the small of his back. Wills him on in whatever way she could, the feeling of him through his suit pants intoxicating.

John wriggles out of their grasp, his boxers falling with them. With a nimble glide past her knickers he’s with her, exhaling loudly against her chest.

”Like that” Erica breathes, undone before they’d even begun. She guides his hand over her throat, letting him relax his grip there, tightening as he drove ever deeper.

Just as she’s certain she’ll yelp, he drops her unceremoniously from his waist. “Turn around” he instructs. Erica does as she’s told, increasing her volume with the sole intention of driving him wild.

Confidently she pulls him close again, deliberately grinding her behind against him with everything she had. Her legs threaten to buckle beneath her within seconds, John’s hand gliding around her neck again just as she wanted.

They miss their dinner reservation.

At some god awful time in the morning then find themselves tangled up on the sitting room rug, clothes cast off every which way.

The end of a lengthy cycle of arguing and fucking, then arguing again.

”I think we need some time to think” Erica whispers, pained despite all the pleasure she’d had. 

”Like in Bali?” John hopes. In vain, he knew, but it was worth a try.

“On our own.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s next?


	14. Friends Will Be Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed's mother makes a surprise visit. The gang celebrates Erica's birthday before they leave on tour.

Ed awakes with a start, eyes struggling to open beneath the glare of the morning sun. He'd forgotten to shut his curtains the night before. He'd been too comfortable to get up.

Even now it requires a great deal of effort to move. He rolls away from the sleeping figure beside him and stretches. Even in that brief moment, he misses the warmth of his partner, the soft rising and falling of the chest he'd drifted to sleep on. He'd not slept so well for _years_.

It'd be hard to readjust when Roger left to begin his tour.

Head swimming in a sentimental daze he'd ordinarily have mocked, probably with an overexaggerated retching sound if it was Erica, Ed pours his coffee. He neglects the usual early-hour programming he enjoyed on the television, quite content with his own thoughts.

A knock comes on the door, light and in a succession of three. Reminds him of how his mother used to knock on his bedroom door before telling him to turn his music down.

He makes a point of moving slowly, wary of the floorboards that creaked beneath his feet rousing Roger from his slumber. His disturber taps the door again, more assertive now.

"Just a _minute_ " he whines groggily, fumbling with the lock. He swears under his breath.

He does so again, loudly this time, when he sees who awaits him on the doorstep.

A small purse thrown over the shoulder of a natty, hand-made cardigan, white curls tucked neatly beneath a smart hat, there stands his mother, her brow immediately crinkled disapprovingly. "I don't like hearing you use words like that, Edward" she reprimands in a thick Yorkshire accent.

Numbly he lets her step inside. He scrambles to form a coherent sentence while she fusses over the mess of cigarette ash and dirty plates he'd left on his coffee table. "You'd think you'd grown up in a pigsty" Mrs. Tetley mumbles.

"What are you doing here?" Ed blinks. It was too early for a nicer greeting.

"Oh, _charming_ ". His mother rolls her eyes. She busies herself at the kitchen sink, scrubbing the remnants of curry from the forgotten plates, then checks the heat of the water sitting in the kettle. She goes to pour it into the other cup Ed had prepared. Coffee and three sugars.

"Actually, that's for-"

Roger announces his arrival with a deafening yawn. Ed's robe thrown around him, he sleepily stumbles forward for his usual brew. He doesn't react much when he notices the new arrival in the flat, just nods his head politely. "Morning," he says.

"Oh, hello" Mrs. Tetley offers warmly, "I didn't realize Edward had a friend over."

Inadvertently, Roger's lips form an amused grin, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. He appeals to his partner with bewildered eyes. _Friend?_ he seems to ask.

Ghosts of similar conversations emerge from long-neglected shadows within Ed's mind. On the occasions where his mother hadn't entered his room to warn about his records being too loud, she'd often stutter her way through some vapid excuse as to why Ed wasn't allowed company there. _Male_ company, specifically.

She claimed to have always known he was gay. The years didn't make her any more comfortable with it.

"Actually, he's my boyfriend" Ed declares proudly. He'd given up wasting lies on her.

Though the conflict was a mystery to him, Roger moves over to him, curling a comforting arm around his waist. "That's me" he confirms.

"Pleasure to meet you, pet" Mrs. Tetley offers stiffly. She attempts to busy herself again, inspecting the most ridiculous minutiae of Ed's apartment if it meant she didn't have to see the two men as a couple.

"Why are you in London, mum?" Ed asks.

The question distracts her from her quiet horror. "Your cousin Edith invited me down for the weekend. She's having a big do to celebrate her promotion" she coos, " _Chief surgical resident_ at the hospital, now."

Her green eyes swim with pride. "Gone from our plain little family in the middle of nowhere to living it up in the big city. Makes you proud, it does."

Roger tightens his hold on Ed's waist. He'd have exploded with anger if he hadn't just woken up.

Ed hadn't received any kind of invitation, and he lived only one borough over from his cousin. Not that he cared. It was the dismissal of his own achievements that hurt most. He supposed he should have been used to the sensation. He'd given up trying to impress his family years ago.

"I'd hate to keep you if you've got plans" he seethes.

Mrs. Tetley tuts, reading him in an instant. "Oh don't give me that, pet. We're proud of you too" she says. The sentiment was hollow. Sharing it seemed too much of a chore to be real. "All these _pop stars_ you're meeting. Must be quite a social life. Maybe that's why you don't call."

From the corner of his eye, Ed sees veins start to pop along Roger's scalp. He'd throw the woman out of the window if she didn't leave soon.

That's if Ed didn't chuck her first.

"Well, I'm glad you're looking well. Bit thin, though" his mother reviews, "I'll be in town for a few days. It'd be nice to catch up properly."

"I don't know, mum" her son fires back, already bounding over to the front door, "Might get caught up at some _wild party_ or other". He holds it open expectantly, fed up with the niceties he usually treated her to. Her presence seemed even more stifling because she was in his space. She'd never come down to London to see him before.

He'd escaped to the city as an eighteen-year-old, drunk on the stories he'd heard of people being _themselves_ there. The place wasn't without its prejudices, far from it. But there he'd found community and fellowship he'd never had back home.

Erica had been the first friend he'd made. She'd burst into the university accommodation they shared, boxes tucked under her arms, and found him trying on lipstick for the first time, what felt like a big step at the time. She'd abandoned her moving-in efforts in order to help him out, offering a shade she thought might suit him better.

"The offer's there" Mrs. Tetley smiles, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek, "Lovely to see you, Edward."

She gives Roger an airy goodbye then vanishes, her visit fleeting but damaging nonetheless.

His mother's footsteps fading away, he collapses against the other man, head pounding.

"I don't usually like speaking ill of people's parents" Roger exclaims, "But _fuck me_ " He guides Ed over to the couch where can curl up more comfortably. "What a cow."

"You don't know the half of it" Ed sighs, gulping thirstily at his coffee. He doesn't feel the buzz from it anymore. Climbing back into bed and throwing the covers over his head seemed a means of recuperation.

The drummer rubs soothing circles into his back. "I'd like to know" he voices, "If you're happy to talk."

With previous boyfriends Ed had shaken the notion off, fearing he'd scare them off with the baggage he carried.

Roger was different. It didn't feel like a burden with him.

"I've said before that I used to feel bad about myself. Like I was made _wrong_. She was the main reason for it" Ed admits, "She didn't just drop by. She likes seeing me suffer."

"If she pops 'round again, we'll tell her to piss off" Roger decides. Ed smiles, snuggling nearer. "You might be wrong to her, but to me, you're just right."

* * *

"She's always been a bitch" Erica dismisses, tapping her cigarette on the ashtray available, "Promise me you won't meet up with her while she's in London."

Ed draws another furious red strike through a line in his script. The conflict was evident on his face. It had brewed in him ever since his mother's sudden arrival. "SI don't know. Part of me wants to see her again, just to let her know she hasn't got to me. And she's still my _mum_."

"Fuck all that. You don't owe her anything" Erica vouches, similarly unimpressed with her own script. They usually underwent considerable editing once they'd been handed to them. "Cutting her out isn't a sign of you giving in. It's you making clear that if she wants a relationship with you she needs to change."

Between her and Roger, the message was clear. Maybe he'd just let her vanish back North again when his smarmy cousin's party was done?

"You should've done counseling at uni instead" Ed compliments, gratefully accepting the smoke she offers him.

Erica smiles to herself. "John says that". Her face falls.

These had been the slowest weeks of her life. The loneliest, too. She still met up with the boys as often as their pre-tour frenzy would allow. John always joined. He was still her _friend_ , after all. Parting company killed her though, the usual to-and-fro of deciding whose house to retire to for the evening painfully absent. Very often when she woke up she'd find herself stretching an arm out across the bed, hoping to find a warmth beside her instead of cold, vacant sheets.

At least there were no arguments now. Not that she was any closer to deciding what she wanted from life now she was on her own.

" _I meant to ask_ " she pipes up, changing subject before she grew too depressed, "Why did I have Morten Harket on the phone this morning?"

It had been a bizarre surprise when she'd lifted the receiver to hear the A-ha frontman on the other end.

Ed's face lits up. "He promised he would" he cheers.

She thought she'd spotted the two conspiring on last week's Top of the Pops.

”Where’s he taking you, then? I mentioned you were quite keen for someone to take you to that new Madonna movie.”

Erica sucks on her cigarette frustratedly. “I’ve just got out of a relationship, Ed” she reminds him, “As lovely as he is-“

He wasn’t _John_.

“Just thought it might cheer you up” her friend reasons, “He fancies you like mad.”

The prospect might have excited her before. She couldn’t bear to think that way about anyone else anymore. Her wounds were too raw.

“I’m _grateful_ ” she insists, “But maybe refrain from handing my number out to the people we interview?”

Ed nods. Message received. He glances over the running order for their upcoming show. “Definitely won’t be hooking you up with _these_ acts” he scoffs, “ _Cliff Richard_ ”. He shivers.

”There’s no way I could ever be that drunk.”

They become engrossed in their work for a little while. It was a point of pride with them that they used as much of their own material as they could, the scripts issued to them every week usually too dry for their liking.

They’d insisted on a joint office, too, despite their supposed rise in status. They did things together or not at all.

”Are we still on for your birthday?” Ed asks.

”Eating take-out, playing board games and getting pissed in the comfort of my sitting room?” Erica grins, “I should hope so.”

Her friend bites his lip anxiously. “Is John coming?”

Erica puts on a brave face. She’d fretted that he wouldn’t, desperate despite their fall-out for him to be there.

Her birthday fell the day before the band departed to begin their tour.

”Yes” she answers, “He said he would.”

She knew he’d keep his word.

It wasn’t like they didn’t care for each other anymore. They didn’t stop loving one another. Not on her part, certainly.

Erica had hoped she might have got her thoughts in order before he left the country. Prayed that she’d realize what she wanted before he disappeared.

Each time she’d seen him since their break up she’d waited for it to dawn on her. Kept her tongue sober so she’d be able to declare it clearly when it arrived. It never did.

Maybe John was right. Maybe she didn’t want anything _more_ from their relationship.

* * *

Freddie flashes his fingers deliberately as he sets a ridiculously decadent cake down on the countertop.

A golden band glints on his finger, new and sparkling. A quick glance over to where Jim fixes the last of the birthday banners he’d made confirms he wore a matching one.

”Jim’s made an honest man of me” Freddie glows.

Erica studies the ring in awe.”It’s beautiful, Fred” she smiles, “Congratulations, you two.”

Jim carefully steps down, rewarding his own hard work with a sip of champagne. “We know we can’t actually get married” he says, “But it’s good enough for us.”

His husband blows a kiss in his direction.

”So it should be” Erica agrees, “Gives us something else to celebrate.”

She swipes from frosting from the cake with her finger. Damn, it was good. She could hardly wait for the party to start. It was exactly what she needed after recent events.

One by one, the rest of the group arrive. Brian brings an armful of Chinese takeout with him, abundant in vegetarian options.

He’d convinced Erica to ditch meat for a while. Getting her to quit smoking was his next endeavor, he claimed.

Drinks are poured and chopsticks are passed around.

Erica sets a vodka and tonic out for John on the coffee table. His favorite tipple.

She looks expectantly at the door. He hadn’t turned up with the rest as she’d expected.

“I’ll team up with you, Brian” she calls, perching beside the guitarist while Freddie set a Monopoly board up.

”We’ll make short work of this lot” he jokes, watching Roger and Ed bicker over which counter to use.

They do indeed take a quick victory. Most of the properties on the board were there’s within the hour.

A tense game of Scrabble follows. Ed and Freddie seemed to be in competition to form the most outrageous word. Jim claimed the highest-scoring answer, unearthing some complex gardening term the others were convinced was made up.

”Time for presents” Freddie declares.

Erica tears her sights away from the apartment door. Still no John.

Jim takes out a hefty parcel he’d concealed behind the couch. “Made the case myself” he says.

Erica gently peels the wrapping away to reveal a brilliant leather record case. With excited hands she lifts the clasp, revealing an eclectic mix of pristine vinyl.

 _Pink Floyd, The Ramones, Prince_. And several by _Fleetwood Mac_ , her favorite.

She gasps when he realizes each record is signed.

“Called in some favors” Freddie beans beneath his mustache.

On the verge of tears Erica flings herself over the pair, offering her many thanks in an emotional mumble of words.

Brian gifts her a professional camera, with plenty of film to fill. “I love it!” she squeals.

”I thought you could use it when we go star-gazing again” he suggests sweetly.

She insists he pose for her before she continues.

Roger and Ed give a shared gift. VIP tickets to see Duran Duran later in the year, attached to a note from the band explaining that she was their favorite TV presenter. A fresh carton of cigarettes and several nearly-rolled joints were thrown in by the pair.

The ringing of a clunky cell phone interrupts Ed’s claims that he’d been tempted to gift her something stronger. He takes the call apologetically, then pauses.

It was obvious who spoke on the other end from the disheartened look he gave.

With a clenched fists he holds the device to his ear, practically wincing as his mother rattled on.

Erica shakes her head at him. Mrs. Tetley wasn’t worth it.

From nowhere his features brighten with a wicked grin.

He hangs up abruptly, casting the cell away unceremoniously. “She’s not worth the breath” he decides.

He breaths heavily, as though an enormous weight has been lifted from him.

Erica pulls him into a tight hug. “That there was the best thing you could have given me”. She withdraws to let Roger kiss him lovingly.

Freddie and Brian whistle childishly.

They barely hear the door open above the sound. Caught in an amused giggle, Erica turns her head at the soft pattern of footsteps against the carpet.

The laughter dries in her throat.

John stops in his tracks, disarmed by the reaction.

 _John_.

He’d turned up just as she was about to give up on him.

It takes all she has not to run over and kiss him. They didn’t do that anymore. Instead Erica hopes her gaze communicates the feeling.

She pats the space beside her on the rug, holding out the drink she’d prepared for him hours earlier.

Snuggly he settles down, cross-legged. Erica tries not to overthink the practically non-existent space he leaves between them. He hadn’t sat that close to her since they’d broken up.

“We’re just giving presents, Deaky” Brian informs him.

John snaps his fingers in the air thoughtfully. From inside his jacket he withdraws a thin package.

A single, tucked away in a blank sleeve.

’Play this when no one else is around. All my love. John x’

Erica sets it aside. If no one else was meant to hear it, so be it. It’d be her treat.

”Really breaking the bank there, Deaky” Roger remarks. The bassist fires a glare his way.

”Ignore him” Erica says, “Thank you, John.”

She moves to kiss him on the cheek, still so overwhelmed to have him sitting next to her again. She hesitates. Was she meant to kiss him? Where exactly were their boundaries now they were just friends?

She notices John’s eyes dart to her lips. His eyes twinkle. Exactly as they had when they were just getting started.

Erica makes a bold move. She kisses him properly, not caring that the rest could see. She’s certain she’ll burst when she feels him lean into it.

Freddie gives a loud ‘ _aww_ ’. Roger aims a crumb of birthday cake his way.

”When I kiss Ed you snicker” he complains, “But when those two make out it’s _adorable_.”

The singer shrugs, sipping at his drink through a straw. “They _are_ adorable.”

John smiles bashfully downwards. Out of view from the others he slides a hand around Erica’s middle.

She didn’t concern herself for now with what it _meant_. Having him close felt too good, no matter how unresolved the differences between them.

”This party is also a wedding reception for Fred and Jim, by the way” Brian explains.

The newlyweds wiggle their bands at the bassist.

Ed knocks his own lover’s shoulder, several rum and cokes down. “Where’s my ring?” he threatens.

Roger slaps his thigh cheekily. “Barely two months in? You’ll be bloody lucky” he jests, “I’m not _Deaky_.”

John almost spits his vodka out.

”What happened to that engagement ring you picked up after Christmas? Spent ages dragging me along to all those jewellers.”

Erica feels herself momentarily space out from the conversation. It wasn’t the alcohol. She doesn’t hear Brian change the subject, nor John’s agitated swipe at his band mate. All she’s aware of is John’s hand on her side.

_What engagement ring?_

Their arguments resurface in a sudden bolt. The revelation that John had kissed his ex-wife after dismissing her jealousy so consistently. The earth-shattering realization that his relationship with Erica might not go anywhere.

Erica’s own guilt for feeling she was wasted on a man who deserved so much more.

She pours herself another drink, more liquor than tonic.

”I know what we should play” Freddie shouts, “ _Truth or Dare_.”

* * *

Erica drifted off several questions in.

They’d been slightly naughty from the offset, the celebratory vibe putting everyone in a revealing mood.

”Where’s the strangest place you’ve ever had sex?”

A churchyard when she was seventeen. Her first experience with a woman, or anyone for that matter.

”Have you ever been high at work?”

Ed was most often the culprit where that was concerned. Though Erica did admit to the gang that she’d accepted a particular substance from one of Aerosmith’s members during a smoke break.

The walls of the radio studio had melted while she tried to read the news bulletin.

”Rudest celebrity you’ve ever met?”

Morrissey, to her continual disappointment.

She could vaguely recall the group saying goodbye as they left for home. Ed had tucked a blanket around her when her eyes started to droop.

Under a clear case in the kitchen sat a few slices of birthday cake. The bin was full of empty Chinese takeaway cartons. The many glasses they’d all used had been washed and returned to their cupboards.

Bless them.

Not that she’d have mind the mess. The birthday get-together had been too much fun for it to matter what they left behind.

Erica lifts herself slowly into a sitting position.

Beneath the dim light of a single lampshade she makes out a remaining party-goer, nose deep in a book as he nursed a cup of water.

He smiles sleepily when he notices she’s awake.

”I wondered if I should have put you in bed, but I didn’t want to disturb you” John says.

“You’re meant to be flying out today” Erica reminds him. It was past midnight, according to the clock on the wall. “What are you still doing here?”

The man sets the book down. He perches at the edge of the armchair, as if contemplating whether to join her on the other seat. Erica shuffles up to let him know he’s welcome to.

”Don’t remind me” he sighs sadly, “I’m quite happy here as it happens.”

Erica throws a length of blanket over his knees as he sinks into the space beside her.

The fog of her nap clearing, she’s reminded of Roger’s indiscretion, of all the confusion she’d experienced since John turned up.

They were meant to be broken up.

Something else occurs to her. She takes up the disc John had given to her and walks over to her record player.

He shifts awkwardly as the needle is lowered onto it. Even in the shadows she could tell he was blushing.

She perches back at his side as the gentle strum of an acoustic guitar picks up.

The tune is recognizable in an instant. After all, she’d heard it’s development herself.

_Just one year of love_

_Is better than a lifetime alone_

_One sentimental moment in your arms  
_

_Is like a shooting star right through my heart_

It was John’s voice, as sweet as the first time he’d sung it to her in Bali.

_My heart cries out to your heart_

_I’m lonely but you can save me_

_My hand reaches out for your hand_

_I’m cold but you light the fire in me_

It was while he wrote that she’d first told him she loved him, sudden and out of nowhere considering they’d fought not long before.

”Changed it back from _one week_ ” John explains shyly, “Was going to give it to you on our anniversary, but-“

But they hadn’t made it. They’d got close, though. Nine months in the end.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy as I was there” Erica thinks aloud, “At that little hut on the beach, with you.”

John quirks his lips up sadly. “ _Me too_.”

She brushes a tear from her cheek. “I do my best to let people confide in me. Give them a shoulder to cry on when their head’s in a mess” she weeps, “How the fuck can I do it when _I’m_ the one who needs sorting out?”

Her fingers itch at her sides, tapping just inches away from his.

”It’s weird. First time ‘round, _you_ were the one I talked to. After that big spat with Ronnie.”

They were on the same couch John had fallen asleep on after pouring his heart out. They’d woken the following morning seeing one another in a totally new light.

_My lips search for your lips_

_I’m hungry for your touch_

_There’s so much left unspoken_

_All I can do_

_Is surrender_

“That thing Roger brought up. Was that meant to be for another occasion, too?”

”Oh, _that_.”

Silence sets in while the track plays on, imperfect and perfect all at the same time.

“If I _had_ asked you, today or whenever” John gulps, plucking up the courage to meet her gaze. “What would you have said?”

Erica finds the question winds her somewhat.

They’d never discussed it. She’d not even been aware it had been such a serious play on his mind until Roger had accidentally mentioned it. And they both knew what happened when they took the time to talk things through.

They never got anywhere. Just got fed up with one another’s stubbornness and gave up.

In a way it was a perfect example of what angered her so. He’d run off with his own imaginations without stopping to check how she might react.

This would have been a spontaneous proposal.

Maybe she’d have dismissed it like she’d dismissed the idea of them moving in together at Christmas.

Or maybe she’d have done as the song suggested, as they had done for two glimmering weeks in Bali, and _surrendered_.

“I think I’d have said yes.”

The needle on the record player scratches. The disc stops revolving. And with tears in their eyes the two are left in an emotional whirlwind, baffled as to what to do next.

John decides on an easy escape. “I think I’d best be off now” he says quietly.

Erica reaches out to stop him. He lets her pull him back down, her hand lingering on his arm long after he’d sat down again.

”Would you stay with me a little longer?” she pleads, “Before you leave.”

He’d be off around the globe in a matter of hours. She couldn’t bear to let him slip away just yet.

Wordlessly they slip into their pyjamas, for John an old t shirt and sweatpants he’d left behind at her apartment. They changed in separate rooms.

The warm June night shut out, Erica slides beneath her sheets, licking the mint of her toothpaste from her teeth with the swipe of her tongue.

John hesitates beside the bed. They’d not shared one for what felt like an age.

They weren’t a couple anymore, either.

Erica worries he’ll go home after all. Leave her lonely, doomed to restless nights until the tour was over.

Then he climbs in, wrapping strong arms around her, his face resting on the pillow barely any distance from hers.

”I haven’t actually said it yet” he whispers.

”What’s that?”

” _Happy birthday, Erica_.”

”Birthday’s been and gone now, but it’ll do.”

He chuckles silently, blowing warm air onto her face. The gentle smile she quirks catches his eye.

Slowly, tenderly, he leans in to press his lips to hers.

Erica nestles herself as deeply as she could against him, glad to have him near while she could. An odd sense of peace overcomes her as John holds her close.

In the morning they’d be ripped apart again, but for the time being they didn’t care.


	15. Take Me On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In turmoil, threatened by damaging behavior, John and Erica fall back on their friends.

Erica slaps blindly at the alarm clock on her nightstand. She'd already been awake for some time, the August temperature bordering on unbearable already. There was no reason to move, nowhere she had to be. All radio obligations were done for the time being.

Ed had hurried home, keen to call Roger before the next gig started. The band was in Hungary the last time she'd spoken to them. The tour was going well. They sold out night after night.

John hadn't spoken to her much.

She'd woken the morning after her birthday to find him gone. Not a trace of his having been there left behind. Even taken the pajamas he left behind at her apartment with him. She'd hoped he might leave them, so she could curl up in them when she felt lonely, breath his scent in again.

Erica had gone over and over that night in her head, searching for where she'd gone wrong. They'd discussed the proposal that never happened. Cuddled up in bed and nodded off. He'd _kissed_ her, even. So why were they back to square one?

Clearly, for John, it had meant nothing. Perhaps he'd just felt sorry for her.

Erica had muddled on as best she could, Ed hovering over her shoulder with his usual devilish influence. He came to her with various phone numbers of prospective dates, always equipped with an inspiring lecture about how she was twenty-four, single, and should, therefore, be out having _fun_.

Then the pair had been tasked with introducing _A-ha_ in concert, a one-off show to promote their new record. It had been a blinding performance, charismatic and brilliant from start to finish.

Erica could distinctly remember Morten Harket, who by Ed's account fancied her like mad, making eyes at her while he sang. Quite to her surprise, she'd melted, his icy blue eyes sparkling beneath the lighting rig, pinning her to where she stood stage-side as if she was the only person there.

That late-June night onward, her bed hadn't been quite so empty.

Slender arms appear from beneath a tangle of bedsheets, not ready for her to leave just yet. A mop of floppy brown hair rises, only to immediately fall again on her chest. Pretty blue eyes open slowly, blinking rapidly to adjust to the sunshine.

"This bed is very comfy" Morten yawns, Norweigan accent soft and pleasant.

"I need a shower" Erica notes, idly tracing the defined carvings of his muscles, "So do you. It's going to be hot today."

It would be a shame to waste the weather.

She slips from his grasp while the idea is still fresh and snatches up a clean towel from the laundry pile she'd neglected to put away.

Morten grins softly, exposing the little gap between his two front teeth. He was quite shy, really. Very softly-spoken.

He was closer to her age, though. Only three years her senior. 

"What's in it for me?" he challenges.

Erica shimmies out of the silky nightdress she'd fallen asleep in, letting it pool around her ankles.

"You'll have to find out, won't you?"

They stay beneath the water longer than necessary, steam billowing from the bathroom window, cold stone tiles hard on Erica’s stomach. She hummed along to the song playing on the radio, Morten rubbing intoxicating oils into her soaked skin, hands free to wander wherever they liked.

He was a good lover. Learned her ways quickly. Found it easy to leave her trembling and breathless.

Truthfully, there wasn’t much more to them. She’d made clear to Morten the first time she’d taken him home that it wasn’t a serious relationship she sought. Such a thing would be difficult while she was in love with another. He was comfortable with the arrangement.

Though more and more he resembled a _boyfriend_.

It wasn't that Erica didn't like him. She did, enormously. But nothing ever absolved the bizarre guilt she felt in her gut. As if she was betraying John in some way. The notion was ridiculous, Ed had counseled her. She and John had been given an opportunity to rekindle their relationship as they'd wept on her couch after her birthday party, when it seemed they were starting to _get_ _somewhere_. Nothing had come of it.

They'd stayed silent. Pain, cowardice, whatever it was, won the day.

Not waking to feel cold, vacant sheets had been a comfort at first.

Though even as her new lover caressed her, mouthed the sweetest sentiments into her naked flesh, made her feel _so right_ , Erica was acutely aware it wouldn't do forever.

* * *

Freddie jumps back as several glass bottles smash at his feet.

The shards join the other debris littering the dressing room floor. Spare stage outfits, guitar strings, decorative flowers. Even the paintings on the walls had fallen victim to John's rage.

The singer pauses for a moment, eyes wide as he beheld the scene in the doorway. He'd witnessed a considerable amount of destruction from his bandmates over the years. They were rockstars after all. John himself had caused the odd incident, though usually injured himself more than he did his environment.

Freddie had never thought him capable of such a mess.

Not that John was himself. His eyes glazed over with a new frenzied emotion every few minutes. A dangerous cocktail brewed in his system. He'd operated on a foul combination of alcohol and narcotics for several shows now, the sheer excitement of performing no longer motivation in itself.

"John, what the _fuck_ was that?" Brian asks, pushing past his bandmate. He gasps at the sight he discovers, though it doesn't dissuade him from his cause. "You nearly took your roadie's eyes out."

"Needed to get off stage" John mumbles, energy spent for now. He lets himself sink onto one of the few pieces of furniture he hadn't turned over, his nerves screaming out for a break.

Roger pokes his head round now. "So you just _threw_ your bass?" the drummer scoffs, "It's in a right state now. It'll take ages to fix it."

"That's _it_ " Brian concludes, still shaking from the adrenaline of the gig, "I'm clearing out that cocktail bar you've got hidden behind your amp."

He stalks off with a huff. John doesn't bother to stop him. He knew he'd just replace the liquor that Brian threw out. And take whatever high the shady people that hung around backstage could offer him. 

John couldn't recall when he'd started preparing for concerts in such a way. Large crowds had never sat right with him. A single shot of whiskey had been enough to steady him in the old days. Occasionally he'd have a sip of Freddie's beer while the gig was actually on, too.

For every show they'd done in Madrid so far, he'd been three sheets to the wind before he even got on stage.

"Fuck this" Roger scowls, sympathy with his bandmate close to empty, "I'm off to call Ed."

Despite himself John groans.

Roger jolts forward, Freddie quickly hopping in to restrain him. 

" _Look_ , it's not my fucking problem if you and your ex-girlfriend can't _talk_ to each other properly" the drummer growls. He wriggles himself out of Freddie's grasp and stalks off. Ed would get an earful.

John's mood invariably rubbed off on the others. It was difficult not to be infected by such melancholy. They'd been with one another every day since the start of June, constantly in each other's space. None of them spoke the sad truth of it, but they were all tired of touring. That was a concern that would have to implode another time.

It's his bassist that Freddie frets over. He hated seeing John in such a state.

"My _ex_ -girlfriend, and someone else's _new_ girlfriend" John laments, curling ever deeper into his drunken self-pity. Tentatively Freddie slips beside him, wrapping the younger man into a familiar embrace.

The band had held a press conference when they arrived in Spain. One journalist had asked for a comment on the latest gossip in the British magazines, that one half of everyone's favorite broadcasting duo was now involved with the heart-throb from A-ha.

"I fucked it up, Fred. I knew I should have said something when I left her apartment that morning. But I _didn't_."

Now she was gone.

"Call her, Deaky" Freddie urges, "It's not too late."

"And have Mr. Norweigan fucking _dreamboat_ pick up the phone?"

The singer tries not to laugh as his bandmate slurs. Heartache was such an oddly destructive thing when not processed in a healthy way.

"Remember when Roger brought up that engagement ring I bought ages ago? I asked her what she'd have said if I'd given it to her" John rambles, resting his head on his friend's shoulder, glad to have not repelled _everyone_ with his behavior.

Freddie smiles sadly. It should have been obvious what her answer would be, regardless of the fight she put up about cementing her future. " _Yes_ ," he answers for him.

"I just want to be _home_ again."

Freddie sighs heavily. He thinks of his lovely home back in England, of his beautiful family of cats, of the garden he and Jim spent so many hours in.

"Me too, darling."

* * *

The bustle of the studio buzzing along its usual well-coordinated path, Erica darts between her scripts at the gentle plucking of a guitar to her left.

Morten had an acoustic number planned for his band’s turn on the show. He strummed out a romantic tune, crooning with that wonderful voice of his. He looks over to her every now and then to check she’s watching.

He’d invited her to play something on the guitar initially, claiming she must know a chord or two given that she was surrounded by musicians all day.

Erica didn’t like to tell him that she only knew one song. The one John had written for her. She’d got the gist of the tune after remarkable patience on John’s part.

One of the memories of Bali she drifted back to when there was nothing to occupy her thoughts.

Excited for the show to begin, Morten leaps up from his stool. He snakes his arms around her middle, kissing playfully at her neck.

She bats him away gently, conscious of those who looked on. He steers himself over to the lounge the acts shared, a cheerful grin plastered across his fair features.

Ed frowns at his colleague. He knew she wasn’t actually consulting her script. She already had it mesmorized, a routine bragging point of hers.

”Do you remember when John wanked you off during the Christmas special?” he asks calmly.

Erica splutters on a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding in.

”Beg your pardon?”

She’d thought they’d been awfully sneaky at the time. 

“I’m not an idiot” Ed informs her. She waited for him to break into a giggle. Mock the shock on her face now it turned out he’d known all along.

For some reason he’s remarkably stern.

”You’ll let John do that but won’t let someone put their _arms_ around you” he assesses.

He uses his mature voice, the one he broke into when the situation was dire.

”That’s different” Erica dismisses.

From a corner of the studio the usual teenage crowd of Top of the Pops pours in. Producers scurry about in their typical pre-broadcast shuffle.

”It is” Ed nods, “Because you’re in _love_ with John.“

“It’s not fair on Morten. I know you think it’s just fucking, but he cares about you.”

Erica struggles for an argument, the reality of her friend’s words lodging in her throat. 

It was odd to think he and Roger had experienced such a turbulent start. Sure, they’d bickered too, but they’d managed to make themselves clear eventually. They were all the better for it.

”What are you so afraid of?” he questions, “I always thought it was the bullshit with the newspapers, but it isn’t.”

“I just-“ Erica struggles. The lonely notes of the record John had made for her echo out from the shadows. Old tears sting at her cheeks. “Loving someone that much, it’s _scary_. If I mess it up-”

”Both of you already did” Ed says.

Gently Erica dabs at her eyes, not wanting to put the makeup team through the hassle of fixing her mascara.

”So what am I meant to do?”

”Try _again_.”

* * *

Roger flicks the cap off his beer, eyes shielded from the hot sun by a pair of heavily tinted sunglasses.

The view was pleasant, one of the many beautiful European cities the band had visited on their tour, and the conversation he'd just had equally as lovely.

It warmed his heart to hear that Ed was well, that he missed him and had various things planned for when he returned to England.

It had been a while since he'd had a relationship that felt _fresh_ ,  _exciting_ . It was like being young again. The oncoming grey hairs and occasional aching joints didn't seem so bad when Ed was around.

Brian was similarly rejuvenated, but didn’t confess as to why.

"When were you going to tell us about  _ Dobson _ ?" Roger springs upon him.

Brian narrows his eyes. " _What_?"

"Anita Dobson. That is who you've been calling every night, isn't it?"

It certainly wasn't his wife's number he was dialing after every show. The drummer had known him too long to be oblivious to it. Erica had already told him how quietly smitten the two seemed. Before, he'd never suspected it to be anything but a mutual crush.

But Brian seemed attached to the woman, truly and deeply.

"I've got a wife, Roger" Brian reminds him.

"Hasn't stopped you before."

"Yes, you and I are alike in that regard."

Roger waves his hand dismissively and takes a long sip of his beer. Another argument didn't seem very appealing, especially since they'd all been bickering none stop since they'd left London.

“I told Dominique about Ed” Roger points out.

"I haven't got anything to tell Chrissy, Rog" Brian contends.

Despite his record, Roger trusted him. "So you're not-"

Brian shivers, as though it were winter and not summer. He huffs loudly. "I like her. I  _ really _ like her" he confesses, "But nothing's happened". He looks out across the water with a wistful glint in his eye. An old romantic. "I was thinking of writing a song for her, on the next album."

Roger feels his brows shoot up his forehead. "Got it that bad, eh?"

Brian nods slowly. He picks idly at the specs of dust on his guitar. Roger wonders its pretty yellow petals he's picking off in his head, asking himself whether or not Anita loved him as he cast each one away.

They sit in silence for a moment, savoring the warmth, reflecting on what the other had said. It felt therapeutic to open up. For such good friends, they didn't do it enough.

"Rog, I wanted to ask something" Brian speaks quietly, "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"No, Brian, I don't think clogs are  _ that _ terrible."

" _ Rog _ ."

"Sorry, go on."

Roger takes another sip of his beer to steady himself. He hadn't anticipated a deep conversation on such a lovely day, but Brian seemed keen to get something off his chest.

“I know I had to sit through the whole _ice cream flavors_ speech” Brian begins, “But why is it you never mentioned liking men before that?”

"Just didn't feel comfortable with it, I ‘spose. Convinced myself it wasn't real" the drummer shrugs, "Don't give a shit now. Ed taught me that". He smiles fondly against the neck of the bottle.

Oh, to be home again. The adventures they'd have.

"Did we ever make you feel like you couldn't tell us about it? The rest of the band I mean?" Brian continues, "Because if we did, I'm sorry.  _ Truly _ , Rog."

Roger flicks the bottle top at him, laughing when it nestles amongst his friend's dense curls. "Don't be soft" he chuckles, "This band has always been my family. I'm never more comfortable than when I'm around you lot. I just had to figure out how to feel comfortable with  myself , I suppose."

Brian flicks the top back. It's his turn to laugh now, the thin piece of metal hitting Roger square between the eyes. "I'm glad you're okay with it now. And if you ever need a bit of reassurance, you'll always get it from us."

The glass divider behind them opens, and out onto the patio steps Freddie, clad in mismatching shorts and tank top. "What are you ladies gossiping about?" he asks, placing a cigarette between his lips.

"Thought we'd try being nice to one another for a change" Roger informs him.

Freddie tries to suppress a smile. " _ Disgusting _ ."

Suddenly he frowns, glancing about the patio for their missing bassist. "Where's John?" he asked. He hadn't seen him all evening.

"Probably necking a bottle of vodka somewhere," Brian says with a roll of his eyes.

”With ‘shrooms on the side” Roger snickers.

Freddie snaps his fingers impatiently. “That’s enough of that” he warns, “If you two bitter old queens can take the time to be kind to each other, you can afford John the same courtesy.”

The two nod understandingly. “You’re right, Fred. We need to be there for him.”

The gang fall into a contemplative silence. John’s volatility was made all the more terrifying by their inability to work out what to say. They were peering into the dark hole their friend had dug himself into, but were unsure how to get him out.

"Wasn't he tuning up his bass?" Roger remembers abruptly.

Freddie looks back through the glass door. He could see his friend's instrument in its stand some feet away. It hadn't moved an inch since they'd settled down for the evening. It didn't look as though its tuning keys had moved. To his eye, no one had touched the damn thing.

It's then he notices it, slipped carefully between the strings and the fretboard. A small, white note with barely anything written on it.

He swears loudly, the heads of his bandmates whipping around to see what had so offended him.

"Fucking hell," Freddie sighs, angrily casting his cigarette aside, "He's done it _again_."


	16. Bali...Revisited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erica and John try to piece their relationship back together before it's too late.

The universe worked quickly.

Barely ten minutes after Morten had left her apartment, disheartened but admirably sympathetic as to why she had to end their liaison, the phone rang, a frantic Ed on the other line.

“I’ve just got off the phone with Roger” he explained.

”As much as I love hearing about the phone sex you two have, this isn’t a great time.”

She filed through the band’s tour itinerary as they spoke, speedily seeking out the number for the hotel they should be staying at.

She was going to ask for John’s room and try to win him back. Tell him that any anxieties about the future were irrelevant compared to the love they had for one another.

They’d navigate it together. Sensibly, _healthily_ this time, not with pointless bickering.

“That’s the thing” Ed commiserated, “John’s gone _missing_.”

Erica then learns of the mess the man was in. The vicious cycles of indiscriminate fury and drunkenness. The trail of bitter spats he’d started for the sake of it with his bandmates. The mounting repair bills from hotels for the destruction he left behind.

It hits her hard. That wasn’t John. She hadn’t realized he’d had such harsh feeling in him, let alone allow it to fuck him up in such a way.

”He pinned a note to his guitar then bounced.”

”Let me guess, ‘ _Be back in two weeks. Don’t call_ ’”

The exact same note he’d left behind when he ran off to Bali, convincing her to go with him.

”He _can’t_ vanish for two weeks. He’s meant to playing Wembley in a few days” Ed argues.

The band was so near to the end of their tour now. Home was in sight. The other boys had prayed their bassist would hold on for just a few shows more.

”I know where he is” Erica realizes.

It was a ridiculously long way to go, especially when he knew he ought to be somewhere else. But then it had never made sense, _Bali_. It was such an enormously long flight away. Expensive. He'd surely insist on the same beach hut as last time, too, locked away from the rest of the island by a curtain of dense forest.

"I'll manage the radio show tomorrow" Ed offers.

"Ed, I can't-"

"I dumped _Live Aid_ on you, remember?"

The thing had started it all. Their blooming careers, their friendship with the band, the relationships they'd both come to treasure so dearly.

"Go get him back."

The distance was immaterial, the expense manageable.

Erica was done running away.

She glances about her apartment, mentally unpacking each drawer she had. " _Fuck_ " she curses.

"What _now_?" Ed practically screams at her, "So help me God, if you don't get to that airport right now, I'll boot you there. And I'll say all sorts of unpleasant things about you on the radio tomorrow-"

Erica aims her middle finger at the receiver. "I can't remember where I put my _passport_."

She's sure she hears him sink his head into his hands, vexation audible. "Don't you have a drawer for valuable stuff?"

"The Duran Duran tickets you and Roger got me". She vaults over various items of furniture, colliding clumsily with the old chest she usually threw her car keys on.

She rips the top drawer open. Her passport sits in its usual spot, just visible beneath the tickets in question, and the joints the couple had gifted with them. "Got it" she celebrates.

Her phone almost topples from its place, the cord now pulled around in all directions as she scrambled to pack.

"Bring the weed, too."

"Ed, I'm going after the love of my life. I'm not getting stoned."

The man tuts. "Sometimes I ask myself why I'm friends with you."

* * *

Scaling the uneven path down to the beach in the dark, a badly-packed holdall weighing her down, Erica considers how embarrassing it would if she was mistaken. If their lives were a romantic comedy, John would surely be in Bali. She consults the wide bank of impassioned speeches Ed often recited from movies. Perhaps there was something in those she could borrow. The jet lag induced delusion dissolves when she trips on a stray stone. What the fuck was she on about?

She'd just say what came to mind in the moment.

The slips her sneakers off at the final step, gently letting her toes sink into the sand. It was still warm though the hour was late, like silk on her travel-weary feet. The beach hut stands in the distance, a single light on the porch illuminating the shoreline. Just on the edge of the waves lies a man, a half-empty bottle nestled beside him. Erica hopes he's stargazing, and not passed out.

She didn't like to think how long he'd been there, exposed to the elements.

"Rude of you not to invite me" she calls out.

John rises from the sand with a start, blinking hard. His slightly inebriated gaze fixes on her, striding towards him like she'd been sent from Heaven. He didn't seem shocked by her sudden appearance, just relieved. "I suppose I knew I wouldn't have to" he whispers.

He'd counted on her turning up. And here she was.

Erica dumps her bag and falls to her knees beside him, sweeping him up in a loving hug. She could smell the drink on him. While he snuggles into her bosom, she seizes the bottle concealed at his hip and throws it further along the beach, just away from temptation.

"Why did you run off?" she asks, pulling back to look him straight in the eye, "The others are worried sick."

"I was so _overwhelmed_. I didn't know what to do" he admits, "Then I remembered how happy I was here. With _you_."

The happiest weeks of their lives.

John averts his gaze, sadly looking out across the ocean. "Shouldn't you be with _Morten_?" She ignores the way he hurls the name, understanding that the alcohol was to blame. Going by the dark rings around his eyes, he hadn't slept much either.

"I broke up with him" Erica reveals.

John's attention snaps back, pity giving way to yearning. She didn't need to say why she'd finished with the other man. It was obvious. He repositions himself on the ground, tentatively reaching out to stroke his love's cheek. Erica leans into the sensation, the touch of his hand divine. She couldn't believe she'd ever let him go.

His mood changes again. He curses loudly, bounding up to his feet, digging at his curls in frustration. "I don't get it" he shouts, "I tell you how much I want to be with you, and you say we're done. Now you travel halfway 'round the globe to tell me you love me after all."

Erica hears a muted gasp escape her lips. It had been so simple in her head. She'd tell him how much she adored him, he'd listen dutifully, and they'd end the day running off into the metaphorical sunset. She hadn't anticipated another argument.

Fuck all those movies and how easy they made it seem.

She knew she shouldn't have risen to his anger, but she couldn't help herself.

"Because you've always been so clear" she retorts, "You could have gone home that night after my birthday, but you didn't. You stayed. _Kissed_ me. Fell asleep next to me." She gives herself a chance to breathe, surprised by how choked up she sounded. "I remember going to sleep in your arms thinking I had you back. Then you _vanished_. Barely spoke a word to me afterward."

"It shouldn't have taken me so long to realize it, but I _need_ you, John."

"Was it being apart or fucking someone else that made you realize that?"

Erica recoils. This definitely wasn't going to plan.

"Have you forgotten that you snogged your ex-wife, then tried to blame me for it?"

"I didn't blame you for it. It was my fuck-up. I own up to it."

"And I'm trying to own up to _mine_."

There they were again. Recycling the problems of old. Stuck at the exact same sorry point Erica had come to untangle them from. Before she'd have given up, called it a day on their relationship yet again. Walked away as they had before.

Not this time.

"All of those fuck-ups? They haven't made us weaker. They've made us stronger" Erica reasons, abandoning her hatred of cliches now the time was right, "Because despite it all, I still love you. And I'm pretty sure you still love me too."

John's fury fades. He appears to sober up before her eyes. And with a sad smile, he nods. "I do. Never stopped."

Erica's tempted to leap on him, throw her arms around his neck and not let him go again. It was all the courage they'd neglected to summon last time they spoke.

But her speech wasn't done. She couldn't bear to leave room for interpretation this time. Wanted to make her declaration as real and open as she could, no matter how she rambled.

"The day we broke up, I had something I wanted to tell you. That I wanted to _move in_ with you after all" she relays, "And when I said I'd say yes if ever you asked me to marry you, I _meant_ it."

John nods again. He steps nearer, expression serene despite the torment stewing in his head. His eyes dart intermittently to her lips between thoughts. "Why did you fight all before?" he poses.

"I wasn't sure" Erica confesses.

Just as she's about to reach out to him, pull him flush, seal their bond once more, he moves away.

"So how can you be sure now?"

Erica opens her mouth to contend, but not a single sound comes out. Her head empties, her hands left empty and numb against her sides.

They were back on that fucking couch again, weren't they?

With a sniffle, hands buried in his pockets, John steps around her. He trudges up the beach, back towards the safety of the beach house, marking the sand with depressed footsteps that the sea would soon wash away.

Erica feels her legs give way, the weight of her journey setting like concrete in her bones. She doesn't watch him walk away. Everything but the ground she sank into faded into darkness. Maybe she should have taken Ed's advice and packed those damn joints after all.

John struggles not to tear back, with each step his heart screaming at him to stop. Instead, he cocoons himself in bed, unsure as to whether she'd be gone by the time he woke.

* * *

She wasn't.

The weeping of a guitar made that obvious the moment he opened his eyes again. A familiar melody he'd conceived in that very hut. He could hear her faintly singing too, the lyrics he'd written for her.

Silently he looks into the sitting room. There was Erica, puffing away at a pack of cigarettes, clumsily plucking out a peaceful riff. The guitar still wasn't her strong suit.

She'd told him her voice wasn't worth much, that as a child she'd been invited into her school's choir out of pity rather than talent. He'd only ever heard her sing once or twice, at rowdy bars and in the shower, either too drunk or too at peace to care who listened. Just as she'd promised not to laugh at his voice, he'd promised not to laugh at hers. The vow was pointless. John wasn't tempted by a giggle in the slightest.

It wasn't a perfected sound, just like his, but it was beautiful. Pure and real and vulnerable.

_Just one year of love_

_Is better than a lifetime alone_

_One sentimental moment in your arms_

_Is like a shooting star right through my heart_

She kept surprising him, always finding new ways to move him.

_My heart cries out to your heart_

_I’m lonely but you can save me_

_My hand reaches out for your hand_

_I’m cold but you light the fire in me_

She wasn't just singing his own lyrics back to him. Mimicking the song as though it was just another hit off the radio. It came from the heart. She was the one so hopelessly in love, and she meant every word.

They weren't the sum of their arguments. Fighting was a symptom of how frightening and painful love could be, too readily dismissed as proof they couldn't work. But it was as Erica had said. Their feelings had endured so much stress and remained intact. Stronger, even. It wasn't wrong of her to wait before realizing he was worth surrendering to. Reaching that conclusion was all that mattered.

Erica catches him unawares, pausing in her accidental serenading of him. "There's a nice saxophone bit here," she says, "I thought I'd stick with one year of love. Sounds better. Gives us something to aspire to, as well."

John walks out from the darkness of the bedroom, yearning for her to start singing again, the words she hummed reaching a place in his soul he’d entirely forgotten about in his drunken confusion.

"Has a nice swell from an orchestra, too, if I remember rightly" Erica goes on, a vision of perfect calm after their last encounter, "As all ballads should."

John feels tears prick at his eyes, but he wasn’t ashamed. It dawns on him in an instant.

"I can't let you go again."

Erica lets the acoustic guitar slip from her fingers, her focus on him intense and unwavering in the dull light of the sitting room. She'd never been more radiant, black curls slightly longer than they'd been when he last saw her in England, brown skin just a touch darker after fruitful summer months.

"Then don’t."

Slowly John crosses over to her, kneeling down on the floor to meet her face to face.

"You remembered how to play it, then" he jests, in little but a whisper. Erica brushes a tear from his cheek, ignoring her own.

"Told you I'd get it eventually."

They laugh and weep at the same time, sentimental idiots consumed by how besotted they were. Proud of it they were, too.

Erica brushes his lips with her thumb, John letting his eyelids droop low, savoring every second.

"John?" she utters lowly.

"Hmm?" He snaps awake again, lacing his fingers through hers.

"Will you marry me?"

She hadn't intended to say it. It was just what had sprung to mind. Inadvertent wisdom of Roger's from many weeks ago made her certain. The best things did indeed happen when they weren't planned.

John grins. "Can I have a minute to think about it?" he pokes.

She pretends to slap him. "Just say yes, prick."

John pulls her closer, letting her slip off the couch and onto his lap. " _Yes_."

He softly tilts her chin towards him, capturing her lips with his own.

Erica lays herself down on the floorboards, gently pulling him on top of her. They take their time in getting reacquainted, tracing each other's features with love in their eyes, wordlessly worshipping each and every curve and blemish.

There was no rush. They'd have a lifetime together, after all.

* * *

Erica rolls off her new fiancé and back onto the mattress, smirking at the breathless mess she’d left him in.

She’d wasted no time in showing him how desperately she’d missed him.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, John claims her swollen lips fiercely. A mischievous smile toys on his features. “Did Morten make you scream like that?”

Erica bites his lip hard. “Don’t make me take back that aluminium foil ring I made for you, old man.”

John studies the improvised jewel on his wedding finger. She’d intended it as a joke, but he genuinely liked it. Made him all the more excited to give her the proper ring he’d bought for her.

Massaging the ache in his shoulders, he slips from beneath the tangled sheets. He wets a cloth, throwing it to his lover after he’d cleaned himself off.

John finds himself watching her. Fresh again, she’d rolled onto her stomach, nestling her head against the pillow, glowing with satisfaction.

”I can’t believe I get to look at you for the rest of my life” he breathes, drinking in the barely concealed curves of her body.

”Take a picture” Erica winks, “Won’t be this perky forever.”

He aims a crooked brow at her. From her half-emptied hold-all he withdraws the camera Brian had given to her for her birthday.

There was fresh film in it.

Erica laughs, kicking the bedsheets off her back. She wanted him to appreciate her full form.

“Are you going to direct me, habibi?” she taunts.

John presses the shutter down, a single flash of light immortalising the sight before him. He sets the first photo aside, quickly taking another when she perks her bottom up.

”Turn over” he instructs, grinning wickedly all the while.

Erica flips onto her back, stretching her arms out over her head. She pushes her chest out just enough, chuckling at how tense his movements became.

Another click, another flash. John casts the Polaroid onto the others, the first instalments of what she hoped would be a burgeoning collection.

He moves to another side of the bed. He peers from around the lens to touch her. Erica meets the grip on her leg, eager to guide his hand a little further. John slaps her away.  
  
Erica does her best to keep her arms at her sides as he parts her legs, fingers deliberately grazing her inner thigh longer than necessary. She rebels purposely, humming sweetly when he strikes her wrist a little harder this time.

John takes another photo, positioned right at her feet. It proves a popular shooting point. He works through the film quickly, the thought of capturing her like this, spread out for him, forcing every drop of blood he had southward.

Erica pins him to the spot with a fiery gaze. She trails a hand over her breast, then downward, pausing just shy of her core. “Is this okay, habibi?” she asks, studying every excited twitch of his beneath thick eyelashes.

She continues on her path past her navel before he can answer, a gentle whimper slipping from her lips. The camera flashes again.

“I didn’t say you could do that” John cautions, reaching out to direct her again. Erica pulls his hand down to her clit, her own pressed on top, keeping it there.

John manages another snap, made slightly blurry by the circles he began to draw with his fingers.

”What are you going to do about it?” Erica’s challenges. The mischievous grin she sports is cut short by a delighted gasp, her lover easing into his motions, urged on by the sounds he elicited.

John sets the camera safely down on the bed, his now freed fingers tracing her bottom lip. He’s certain part of him ascends to the skies when she takes his digits into her mouth, sucking tenderly.

She adored watching him unravel.

"Teach me a lesson, baby. Make sure it's a good girl that you're marrying."

Unable to remain passive any longer, John pushes her a little further along the mattress, making room for him to press himself flush against her. She nods keenly in approval, thighs immediately wrapping about his middle. She guides him inside her, sighs in delight at how full he made her feel.

John’s unforgiving in his stamina, knowing damn well he wouldn’t last long but too absorbed in her to care.

”I don’t want to go back to England” he declares, by now reduced to panting against her neck, “I want to keep you right here.”

Erica twists a hand about the bedpost, knuckles turning white. She bites her lip to stop her words from being drowned out by a guttural cry.

”You’ll have to” she reminds him, “But I promise you we can do this in England too.”


	17. Tutti Frutti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good news is shared. The gang look toward the future. Wembley hosts a triumphant end to the band's tour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please watch the Tutti Frutti performance from Queen's first night at Wembley here  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H5_njMlPf7A

Ed squeals at the sight of himself on television.

He'd had much more hair in '85, he realized, his auburn locks kept long and shaggy, his attempt to look like a ginger Nick Rhodes. He wore different frames, too, chunkier than the round spectacles he donned now. His younger self makes him chuckle. The change in him hadn't actually been that dramatic at all, but he was a different person. His career, his relationship, his social life. It had changed so much since Munich.

Roger stirs beneath him when he catches sight of himself, idly bashing away at his drumkit, deep into the bizarre genesis that 'One Vision' had gone through.

To tie-in with the end of the band's tour, a triumphant three-day stint at Wembley that would begin the following evening, the BBC had put together the footage Ed and Erica had brought back to England with them. It had all been put together to form a documentary, chronicling the creation of the new album.

It was the banter between bandmates and reporters that made the best viewing. The rapport they had together was irresistible.

"I do believe you were staring at my arse in that frame" Ed points out.

He'd just conducted a brief interview with Brian about his progress. From behind his kit in the next room Roger could be seen darting his eyes to the younger man's backside.

"It's hard to miss, mate". He slaps his lover's bare behind cheekily. It was one of his favorite things to do, he'd concluded. It just looked so damn good, no matter what he wore. Of course, it was best enjoyed when he wore nothing at all.

"Do you think Erica will be mad if she finds out we shagged on her couch?"

Ed snorts. For a moment he'd forgotten he wasn't in his own apartment.

His colleague and her new fiance were returning from their trip to Bali shortly. They'd ended up flying over later than the rest of the band, too swept up in bliss to go back to England. Ed had promised he'd tidy up the mess she'd left while packing her things. Then Roger had appeared on the doorstep, gorgeous and tanned from two months of roaming the continent, and all thoughts of cleaning had vanished.

"It's nothing this sofa hasn't seen before" Ed contends, "And it's not like we've made a _mess_."

"Perhaps we should have done" Roger suggests huskily. He presses his crotch hard against Ed's back, teeth nibbling at his earlobe. Ed pushes back, guiding his partner's hand between his legs. "A _mess_ can be arranged," he says coyly.

With hungry eyes, Roger pulls himself on top of the other man, lips immediately going to work along his back.

Keys jangle at the apartment door. The lock turns.

Before either Ed or Roger can retrieve the blanket they'd covered themselves with, two sun-kissed lovers stroll in.

John doesn't react much to the sight. He'd caught Roger doing worse. Erica wasn't entirely surprised either. In their days of sharing university housing, Ed had frequently brought boyfriends into her bed, arguing that her room was the closest to the front door.

"You two look cozy" Roger pipes up, hastily throwing the colorful throw-over Erica had knitted some time ago over himself. Ed grapples for a substantial piece of material, immediately pulling it down over his groin. It was a futile attempt. Fabric that thin concealed _nothing_.

"Thanks for cleaning up, Ed" Erica remarks. The clothes and books she'd thrown about while packing her bag for Bali remained where she'd left them. There was a joint or two missing from her stash as well. It wasn't worth being mad about.

Few things could make her angry at the moment. Not the thunderstorm that had struck the island as she and John had taken their leave. Not even the enormous delay to their flight. She'd smiled through all of it.

Getting engaged left her in a near-permanent state of euphoria.

The future bride and groom had stopped off at John's house first to pick up the engagement ring he'd bought so long ago. It fitted her finger perfectly, a finely cut diamond set fabulously on a pure silver band. It was a considerable step-up from John's improvised aluminum one. He insisted on keeping it on, taping it back together whenever it began to crumble.

"Got me groceries, at least" Erica notices, diving a hand into the first of three brown paper bags left on her kitchen counter. Her hand clasps about a heavy glass bottle. She pulls the object up to reveal champagne, of a label and vintage that neither she nor Ed could possibly hope to afford.

"You bought _Moet_?" she objects, "On _our_ salary?"

Even with a wildly successful radio show and weekly appearances on Top of the Pops they didn't make that much.

"Excellent news" Ed squeaks, jumping up despite his nakedness, "Our seniors came by while you were away."

"They've been compiling the figures. Our stupid little shows are the most popular on the entire fucking station!"

Instinctively Erica pops the cork from the Moet bottle, too wide-eyed to care about the torrents of foam pouring onto her floorboards. BBC Radio 1 was _the_ station. To succeed there, as they evidently had, was to be successful everywhere.

"They're moving us to a prime time slot. Four three-hour shows a week, one after hours" Ed explains.

"Babe, you can finally _swear_ on-air" John comments, planting a wet kiss to her cheek.

No more frustrated taps from their producers on the glass partition.

"And-" Ed wasn't done. Comfortable with his nudity, he retrieves four glasses from a kitchen cupboard. Inspection within the other two paper grocery bags reveals yet more champagne. He pours the stuff from one bottle directly into his mouth. "They want us to start leading Top of the Pops. We're _the_ presenters now."

"No more boring old fucks who pretend to care about what's in the charts?" Erica gasps. Ed nods cheerfully. They were the bright, young fucks, and thriving on it.

"There's _more_ "

Erica's certain she'll pass out. She doesn't even notice Roger clamber from her sofa, also stark naked, to grab a glass of bubbly. Again, John doesn't flinch. Touring with three other men had clearly accustomed him to certain sights.

"They're considering adapting our radio show for _television_ ". Ed practically screams.

Confirmation would arrive depending on how their documentary was received. Feedback they'd had so far had been very encouraging.

"My future wife's going to be a talk show host" John cheers, taking a greedy sip of his drink.

Erica kisses him fiercely before he can swallow. The words _future wife_ had excited her most.

It was a feeling she'd never considered. Being someone's _wife_. The word carried such weight that it had daunted her for so long. It didn't feel so scary with the right partner. _Yes_ , being _Mrs. Deacon_ would suit her quite nicely.

"Here's to Ed and Erica" Roger proposes, raising his glass in a toast, "And making outrageous amounts of money."

* * *

Erica conceals a cigarette behind the wings. She'd assured Brian that she'd start to give up smoking in a fit of post-engagement madness. He'd been so pleased. Craftily puffing away would have to do for now.

She waves to the woman who appears backstage. "I didn't know you were coming" she grins, leaning in to hug her warmly.

"I wasn't sure I would" Anita admits. She still smiled as she always did, but with less fervor now. Something ate at her, her pale brow creasing just enough to show it was a considerable dilemma that weighed on her mind.

"I'm assuming Brian invited you" Erica concludes. She rubs the actress's arm comfortingly when she sees her features dip sorrowfully.

With the band all assembled in England, Brian had announced that he'd spoken to his wife. A separation had been agreed upon. He'd admitted to being in love with another woman. Most admirably, neither he nor Anita had acted on their feelings up until then.

The Wembley gig would be the first time she'd seen the guitarist after the decision.

"I feel so _awful_ " Anita sighs, "I know he and his wife were struggling before, but I just feel like-" She stutters, the right words escaping her.

Erica reflects on her own past. "Like you put the final nail in the coffin."

Anita nods sadly.

It was a very defeating feeling, made worse by the press. With excited pens they vilified those who they perceived to have broken marriages. Erica had lost track of how often she'd resorted to calling herself by their words. A _whore_ , effectively. Young and dumb, too absorbed in media attention to have any inclination of the lasting impact she'd had on these poor, defenseless men's lives.

" _Fuck 'em_ " Erica declares, offering her friend a cigarette, "It's all white noise in the end."

Anita smiles but declines the smoke. Her and Brian were clearly an ideal match.

With renewed vigor, she leaves to find the man, words of love and adoration ready on her lips. Fred and Jim take her place, keenly avoiding the guitarist and his new 'no smoking' rule.

"I do love Anita" Freddie gushes, "She's so fierce and bubbly."

"And she makes Brian smile like nothing else" Jim adds.

The couple beams contentedly at one another, leaning in for a quick but doting peck on the lips.

"Will we ever have a proper ceremony for you two?" Erica questions, the wedding bands on their fingers sparkling as vividly as ever, "It'd be nice to do something."

"That would be nice" Freddie agrees, "A little soirée. Even if it doesn't amount to anything legally-"

The law could fuck off.

"You are husbands" Erica declares, "I won't hear anything else."

She and Ed had considered saying something on the subject during their show but had been cautioned against it by their producers. There wasn't much of a public appetite for it, apparently. There were other things they'd explicitly been told not to bring up. Both hosts had friends within the transgender community who wanted their voice heard. Supposedly, the BBC wasn't ready for it yet.

 _Bollocks to that_. Ed talked fondly about getting married. He had a great chunk of the ceremony planned out already. Brave would be the man who came between him and his dreams.

They planned a series of interviews with their trans pals, too.

"I do have some vows written" Jim reveals.

Freddie dramatically throws his hand over his mouth. "I thought I was the only one."

"It's decided" Erica brokers, "You can get married in my back yard."

Freddie raises a brow curiously. "You don't have a back yard, darling."

She would soon. In the brief time they'd had back in the country, she and John had arranged several viewings of London homes.

They'd started on a fresh start, not wanting to share a space they'd habited with previous partners. It felt right, having somewhere together. Erica had insisted on paying her share, fairly and squarely. Being bumped up the ranks at the BBC entitled her to a generous raise. She wouldn't leach off him as the papers suggested. She'd worked hard for her money.

"We could have a joint ceremony" Erica giggles.

The plans for her own union were in their incredibly primitive stages, only a series of pipe dreams at present. They had a tiny, intimate service in mind. Only a handful of friends and family invited, tucked away somewhere private where the cameras wouldn't reach them.

John appears around the wings.

The roar of the Wembley crowd was difficult to ignore by now. Every ticket had sold out within seconds. It would be a spectacular end to the tour.

There was a suspicion within their little unit that it would be an end _full stop_. In a pre-show rage, Freddie had pronounced that he couldn't do it anymore. He was exhausted. The other band members were in hushed agreement.

They'd all found themselves tired by the old routine. Sure, performing before hundreds of thousands at a time was terrific fun. Indeed, they'd broken a record with the _Magic_ tour. Over one million already played to.

But it couldn't go on. There was too much waiting for them at home.

And there were other concerns, though the didn't know it yet.

"Last warning, Fred" John cautions, "We need to be on soon."

The audience was getting restless.

"Time to give the people want they want" the singer brashly proclaims.

Gracing his husband with another deep kiss, he disappears amongst the chaos of the stage, lost amongst the tide of roadies and technicians who floated by. Jim dutifully follows, already buzzing with excitement about what he'd hear in the coming hours.

"The lot of us, do you ever think we'll be as happy as we are?" John considers, pulling his own love into a passionate embrace.

Erica smiles. They were all paired up, ready to begin the rest of their lives together.

"We can only hope so."

* * *

" _Whop bop b-luma b-lop bam boo_ "

He claimed he couldn't remember how the tune went, but Freddie dominated it with his usual finesse.

The crowd, over one hundred thousand strong, recited the words back to him.

The concert had gone fantastically so far. The fans had lapped up every note. They'd play around for a little bit, egged on by the merry atmosphere.

Erica had grown up with the records of Little Richard. Her mother had been a dedicated fan.

She'd never anticipated shaking a tambourine alongside Roger while the song played. She copied his movements dutifully, too frightened to give a false note before such a crowd.

_Got a girl named Sue_

_She knows just what to do_

Ed shimmies along in time with the beat, lapping up the attention.

Neither he nor his friend could recall exactly when they'd been beckoned on stage.

Brian had made an off-hand message about how the famous pair were present at Wembley. The crowd had taken matters into their own hands. Anita held off for now, content to watch the apple of her eye from the wings.

_She rocks to the East_

_Rocks to the West_

_She's the girl that I love best_

The lyrics were infectious. Not a single witness could bear to remain in their seat.

Erica tries her best to remain on-beat, still not a musician.

John grins at her while the music plays, effortlessly plucking at his bass.

She sincerely hoped they were all as happy as they were at that moment, jamming together like no one was watching.

The challenges of future years didn't seem so daunting while they were together.

_Tutti frutti, oh Rudy_

_Tutti frutti, oh Rudy_

_Tutti frutti, oh Rudy_

_Whop bop b-luma b-lop bam boo_

Freddie grins, the crowd in the palm of his hand as always.

"Got a girl, named Daisy. She really fucks me crazy-"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rest in power to Little Richard. The father of rock 'n' roll.
> 
> All comments and thoughts welcome and always :-)


	18. Landslide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed makes a painful visit to an old friend. Erica takes a test. John puts the finishing touches on their new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains discussion of HIV/AIDS.
> 
> I found this article very informative where the press' attitude to the AIDS crisis in the 80s is concerned. There is also a great video at the end featuring people talking about their own diagnoses. PLEASE check it out  
> https://www.pinknews.co.uk/2018/11/30/world-aids-day-1980s-headlines-tabloids/
> 
> Stay safe, beautiful people. I love you :)

Ed hesitates at the door. Five minutes had passed since the nurse had let him know he could enter. He stood with numb legs, one more horrific thought away from keeling over entirely.

He could glimpse the patient within through a small glass frame. Curled up onto his side, sunken gaze fixed on the far-side wall. Stale white sheets clung to a meager frame.

Craig, the boyfriend he'd betrayed in favor of Roger way back in '85, a shell of his former self.

Ed bolsters himself with shaky breaths. Quietly he slips inside, immediately seeking out a chair to collapse into. He'd intended to mask his reaction, not wanting the poor man to feel insulted or ashamed. It was involuntarily. Made him angry, what it had done to him.

The horrid disease that had affected so many friends of his now. It wasn't long since it had been left unnamed. Cases were getting worse, more common. Most governments did very little to understand. Public understanding of AIDs was woefully lacking, an ignorance only exacerbated by the press. Ed had opened the morning newspaper one day to find it dismissed as the 'gay plague'.

Craig senses his anxiety immediately. "Bit grim, eh?" he acknowledges. He tries to smile but finds himself overcome with sadness again. "Did you get the test done?"

"As soon as you called" Ed nods. That had been a terrifying moment. Lonely, too. He hadn't bothered to trouble anyone with it at the time, against his better judgment. "I'm fine. I don't have it."

"I'm glad."

Ed exhales hoarsely. He'd suspected his conscience might make it difficult for him to look the man in the eye. In fact, it was a challenge to look anywhere else. He couldn't believe it, how _gaunt_ Craig appeared. He'd always had such gorgeous, sun-kissed skin. He appeared a deathly grey, now. He was so thin, like he'd snap if the wind blew too fiercely.

Apparently Craig had been managing his illness at home for a while, taking what little help his doctor could offer. He lived with a new partner, his dedicated carer for the last few months. It was a dangerously persistent cough that had landed him in a hospital ward.

There was no magic pill that could take it all away.

Craig's partner worked every hour God sent in order to try and cover their medical expenses.

"Are you with anyone at the moment?" he queries, pulling himself into a sitting position with considerable effort, "Is he okay?"

"He's fine too. Got checked when I did". He and Roger had both got themselves a thorough check-up before they started hooking up. If they were going to conduct a clandestine affair, they could at least be sensible about it.

Ed recalled that he hadn't told Roger why he ought to get tested this time. Just informed him that it was a responsible thing to do. He wasn't sure why he couldn't reveal the phone call he'd gotten. He'd lied about where he was headed, too, pretending it was the studio he was stopping by and not a hospital.

"Is it Roger?" Craig asks.

Ed nods. "Nine months tomorrow."

His ex smiles gently. "I'm glad it lasted". There was no sarcasm in the statement, save that which Ed himself imagined.

"You're taking the piss" he tuts.

Craig places a hand on the arm of his chair, beckoning him closer to the bed. Ed shifts nearer. He didn't intend on skipping back home soon, anniversary or not. The pain he felt would be good for him, he considered. A much-delayed wake-up call.

"I'm not going to act like it was okay that you cheated on me" Craig assesses, "Because it absolutely wasn't. It was awful. It hurt, having something so wonderful thrown away without warning."

Their relationship had been perfectly healthy until Ed left for Munich. True, there was the odd wrinkle to iron out, but nothing they couldn't overcome. He'd traded it all in for a single stupid night of coked-up sex with Roger he could barely remember.

Ed detested himself for how long it had taken him to process the hurt he'd called. On their flight back to England, Erica had accused him of _wanting_ to be broken up with. She was right. And in the months after it happened he spent his days lamenting his own loneliness, not the damage he'd done.

"But what can we do about it now? I don't have the time to be bitter" Craig says, "So, yes, I'm glad you're happy now."

Ed forces tears back with a loud sniffle. He was stunned he'd kept it together this long.

"And I can't wait to see you on TV."

The man chuckles humorlessly. "I keep forgetting about that."

Erica didn't. She'd fussed over it relentlessly since the new year began. It was mid-January now. The BBC aimed to have their new late-night television show going by March. They still struggled over the minor details, a pedanticism they suspected they'd inherited from the boys.

In a stoned New Year's ramble, they'd christened the program _'The Sunday Show'_

"It's meant to be going out on a Friday" a producer had challenged.

" _What of it_?"

Craig yanks at his bedsheets, the winter chill starting to bite at him. Ed helps him get cozy again, retrieving an extra pillow from the nurse's station when he complains of neck pain.

It becomes painfully clear that the cheerful, easy-going warmth everyone expected of Ed wasn't with him. He didn't have the energy to muster up that pretense. Truly, he felt miserable. An unnerving darkness ate away at his thoughts. Where he'd usually burst in infectious laughter, a smirk on his lips, he finds himself succumb to tears.

"What is it?" Craig questions softly.

"I feel bad" Ed chokes, body trembling. His sobs were too overwhelming to contain now. Desperately he fought to stem their aching flow, fearing Craig had seen too many tears from people lately. They just wouldn't stop. Not even when a comforting hand grasps his, nestling it amongst the warmth and comfort of the blankets.

"Now listen to me" Craig instructs, "You have your health. You have a fantastic group of people around you. Be thankful for it."

* * *

Ed takes his time in front of the bathroom mirror. He'd received sympathetic looks from the other visitors who came through. His cheeks were blotchy, red, and sore after so much crying. He recited words to himself to rid the weakness from his voice. What little he could to not make it obvious to Roger that he'd had a rough afternoon.

The meddlesome influences cackling above throw him another obstacle, confusedly navigating the hospital corridors in her fifth attempt to rediscover the parking lot.

Erica yanks a small, round band-aid from the crook of her elbow. The movement disturbs the minuscule wound there. It starts to bleed again.

Ed adopts his best false smile. "Though I told you to lay off the smack?" he pokes.

"You know how I adore shooting up in hospital toilets."

They begin to walk together, not wasting time on the surprise that they'd bumped into one another. Erica follows his footsteps keenly, glad not to be so lost anymore.

She was certain she'd have steered her way through the bustle of the hallways quite accurately had it not been for the needle she'd just had to contend with. She'd always hated the things. The very thought of them made her shiver. Her doctor had assured her it wouldn't be a very large one. Indeed, she'd barely feel it. The whole ordeal would be done with before she knew it.

Complete bollocks, of course.

"How's Craig?"

"Rather not talk about it. What you in for?"

" _Blood test_. And if I didn't humiliate myself during that, kicking and screaming as I did, I then had to piss in a tub and pass it to some poor nurse."

A cheeky grin toys at Ed's lips. "Will you hit me if I start singing _Papa Don't Preach_ again?" he swipes.

Erica jabs a sharp fingernail into his shoulder, a modest warning of what would come if he continued to mock her. "I'll do worse than that, Tetley."

She was grateful to see her friend smile again, even if it was at her expense. He'd started to change lately. Wasn't himself. She'd relied on the upbeat energy he radiated for so long that it was hard to adjust without it. More than once she'd attempted to initiate a conversation about his solemn moods. " _I'm fine_ " he'd always say. He obviously wasn't. Erica wasn't sure what to do.

With their television show in the works, they'd need every ounce of enthusiasm they could summon.

"Have you told John?" Ed poses.

"I don't want to get his hopes up" Erica sighs, "I'm probably not-" She gestures to her stomach, not daring to say the word lest she speak it into existence. "I'm just _anxious_."

Even the possibility of _you-know-what_ would send John into an overexcited spin. _Babies_ had played at the back of his mind ever since an off-handed comment of hers while they decorated their new house. There had been an upstairs room left without a purpose. Without thinking Erica had suggested they paint it a bright but neutral color, something appropriate for a nursery. He knew not to press her on the subject, content that it would happen eventually.

Then they'd gone away for the weekend and she'd neglected her birth control.

Several mixed results from the laborious home-testing kits, unsophisticated and laborious in 1987, and she'd plucked up the courage to get the proper thing done.

Ed jerks his head, well-versed on her dilemma by now. "Anxiety might be why you're late" he agrees.

"Exactly" Erica reasons, "It happens to plenty of women."

"The _sickness_ though?"

She quickens her pace, not wanting to look her friend in the eye. She wasn't sure why she'd suddenly taken the lead in their path. She still had no clue where she was going. For all the confused voices circulating in her mind, the signs hanging over the corridors might as well have been in Dutch.

"Anxiety" she affirms. She rolls her eyes for effect.

"And the _weight gain_?"

"John doesn't do small portions."

She was hardly plumping out. Scurrying about the BBC as she did kept her fit. Yet her clothes had begun to feel tighter around her middle. Close-fitting numbers she usually adored became more uncomfortable to wear every time she tried them on. Erica wouldn't have minded putting weight on if it hadn't gone straight to her belly and her hips. _Those potential signs_.

From within Ed's bulky leather jacket a cell phone rings. He considers the brick-like item, fingers itching nervously at the antennae. "That'll be Rog" he notes.

"Won't you tell him what's going on?"

Erica flinches when he snaps at her. "I thought I said I didn't want to talk about it?"

She stands firm. As much as she hated the turmoil he was going through, she refused to be cowed by it. It was her responsibility as a friend to try to help him, surely? "This thing is affecting so many of our friends now. It's _okay_ to be scared" she counsels, lacing her fingers with his, "Burying it all deep down won't achieve anything."

Ed arches a skeptical brow. " _Denial_ doesn't exactly serve a purpose, either, love."

Erica resists the urge to rip her hand away and storm off. They were both unbelievably difficult when they wanted to be.

"Promise me you'll try and have a nice time tonight" she insists, steering the conversation on before they could grow too irritated by each other.

The man manages a smile. Perhaps he would confide in his boyfriend when he got home? Roger had proved himself emotionally available in the past. Even encouraged him to open up when he felt at ease doing so.

"Sent over that fancy bottle of scotch you both had your eyes on. Something to celebrate with" Erica cheers, recalling fondly how John had pleaded with her not to give it away. He'd ended up helping her wrap it in the end, insisting _'not just any ribbon'_ would do for such a prize.

"You don't have to give gifts out for nine-month anniversaries" Ed giggles. Not that he wouldn't tear into the stuff the second he got through the door.

"I wanted to" she asserts proudly.

"Thank you. You're so wonderful" Ed kisses her cheek fondly, pulling her closer to him, grateful for her companionship after all. "Besides, it's not much use to you now, is it? Being _knocked up_."

"I could go off you, Edward."

* * *

Ed more or less falls through the door. His keys drop to the mat at his feet.

He attempts to inspect his appearance again before Roger hears him. He’d broken down again during the ride over to the apartment they shared.

His partner catches him just as he’s poking at the swelling in his cheeks.

”Honey, you’re home” Roger croons at a deafeningly high pitch. An apron, splattered by all kinds of sauces and ingredients, is fastened about his waist.

‘World’s Best Wife’ it read. 

”Made your favorite” the drummer reveals delightedly, planting a loving kiss on the other man’s forehead.

”Always proving yourself worthy of that apron” Ed beams. He cups his face so he can kiss him properly.

It was nice having him to come home to.

He was in a damn good mood. Reluctantly Ed buries his woes for the time being, Erica’s disapproval resurfacing even as he did it. It didn’t seem fair to lower the mood. He wouldn’t depress Roger with his troubles.

Yes, he’d open up about Craig and all the rest of it another time.

They move into the sitting room. Candles were dotted about every surface. A sedate bluesy record hummed in the background.

Smoothly, Roger guides his love over to the dining table, immaculately dressed with fresh cloth and sparkling cutlery. “Can I get sir a drink?” he asks in a mock French accent.

”I’ll go for that scotch Erica sent.”

Roger retrieves the bottle from its case, restoring the bow on top when he’s done. “Single?”

Ed considers the trauma of the day. The sight of Craig so weak. The guilt that he’d hurt him as he did. The ever-swarming blackness it all contributed to that had parked itself squarely in his mind.

“Double.”

* * *

John stands back to admire his hard work, screwdriver in hand. With any luck, it would be the last shelf he'd ever have to put up. Most meticulously he'd erected the rest. The house had to be perfect, the haven they'd grow old in.

His and Erica's vision for it had changed so often since they bought it last August that they'd only just finished it.

John didn't mind. With no recording or touring to do, it kept him occupied. Truthfully, he'd enjoyed the process, the perfect antidote to the tour he'd endured the previous summer. It made him happy, working on something that was _theirs_. With every stroke of paint and piece of furniture, he contemplated the future they'd build in the home.

It sat in a nice area of London, quiet and clean. More rooms than they really needed, even when the kids stayed, were distributed over three floors. There was a basement, too, which John had converted into a studio. Erica had a wonderful little study overlooking the garden.

Oh, the _garden_. The aspect of the property that had made them fall in love. It was quite spacious, and buzzing with life. A tall brick wall kept it separated from intrusive eyes. There were flowers galore, which Jim had insisted on tending to every other week, and plenty of grass to sprawl out on.

They'd discussed hosting their wedding in that beautiful garden of theirs. Just a handful of family and friends, beneath the old blossom standing proud in the corner.

John smiles to himself, cheeks tinting a delightful pink. He pinched himself every morning to check he hadn't imagined it all. Her asking him to marry him.

A cheeky pinch on his behind rouses him from his daydreams.

Erica throws her coat over it’s usual hook. “That shelf looks great” she praises, swooping in to kiss him tenderly, “You’ll have to switch professions.”

“That just leaves the spare room now” John realizes, rubbing his fiancé’s arms in an attempt to warm her up.

”Mind you don’t throw your back out with all this hard work” she teases.

His pale eyes crinkle as he laughs. He pulls her close to him, arms wrapped around her shoulders. “I regret mentioning the grey hairs now.”

Short strands of silver had started to appear amongst his curls. They’d crept up on him, seemingly. There were faint wrinkles appearing on his brow too, he noticed.

”I think it’s sexy” Erica purrs, snaking her way around his torso.

“Is that right?”

Their lips meet a little harder this time. They hum in unison. The feeling never got old. Always so divine and intense.

”Where _haven’t_ we done it in this house?” Erica utters against his cheek.

Since her scare began, she’d proceeded with such activities cautiously, insisting on protection just in case. John happily obliged, aware of the occasion when she’d forgotten her birth control.

”Just that spare room, I think” John concludes.

Erica buries her hands deep in his back pockets, relishing in the feel of him. She couldn’t keep her hands off him for long, pregnancy scare or not. He was too adorable.

”Might be an issue though.”

”Why?”

”Because Fred and Jim are still in there.”

As if summoned, the pair materialize at the top of the stairs. “You-hoo!” Freddie beckons. Jim gestures politely, a cup of tea in his hand.

The couple had taken their time in touring the newly completed home. They adored it as much as its owners did. There were several details that Freddie had insisted his husband note down, wanting to add them to their own place.

The spare room fascinated them particularly. Namely because John had revealed to them Erica’s comment about it being a potential nursery.

To her delight, mentions of _babies_ gravitates quickly to talk of _weddings_.

Something she was far more excited about.

“Why haven’t we been dress shopping yet?” Freddie complains.

”Soon, I promise” Erica affirms. The prospect reminds her of her slowly growing middle, of the life that might be forming there.

 _Might_. She’d stick to her anxiety theory for a little while longer.

”I’ve been feeling a bit frumpy lately” she admits.

”Don’t be silly” the singer gushes, “You’re fine as you are.”

Erica snorts, quickly studying the increasing sharpness of his features. “Easy for you to say. You get thinner every time I see you.”

His expression falters. Jim’s does too, inadvertently drifting somewhere sad. There had been a few moments like that lately, though she didn’t know why.

”Sorry” she apologizes, embarrassed.

After a quick beat, the couples’ smiles return, and they’re back to chatting ecstatically about her impending marriage. She listens contentedly for a while, happy to just share their company.

Something stirs in her gut. The nausea that so freely came and went.

Erica steps out of the room, suddenly a nursery again in her mind, and takes a deep breath. She’d done well to contain the sickness so far. A good thing too.

She’d used up every ‘food poisoning’ excuse she had. Mysteriously, John never got sick, not even when he shared the same dishes as her.

Her nerves calm. The attack subsides.

She yelps as John pulls her into one the adjacent bedrooms. Fingers delicately curling into her hair, soft and silky against his skin, he kisses her hard. “I know we’ve done it in here” he argues, “But it was so much fun last time, I think it’s worth repeating.”

Erica casts a wary glance to the open doorway. Freddie and Jim would be absorbed in their conversation for a little while, she hoped.

She pulls John onto the bed with her.

”You’re a very bad man, Deacon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look forward to your thoughts! What’s in store for ‘87?
> 
> P.S. I have decided that The Power of Love by Frankie Goes to Hollywood is the Ed/Roger anthem


	19. The Pilot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed's demons interfere with his relationship and his job. Erica, still awaiting the results of her test, becomes a babysitter - with John's help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Features a cameo from David Bowie. And two announcements - one good, one bad.

The clatter of crockery in the kitchen sink rouses Ed from his stupor. The hand he'd been propping his head up with slides out from under his chin, rather rudely making him face-plant the table. He catches sight of his watch while he tries to restore his balance. Nine AM. He'd been up for hours by now. Got himself showered and dressed long before he had to.

He'd been staring into space, smoking cigarette after cigarette, when Roger awoke.

Even in a daze, Ed could tell his boyfriend was angry. His entire form tensed up while he did the dishes, slamming each item down on the sideboard to drain. Over one of the counters was cast the ' _World's Best Wife_ ' apron. It had been left untouched for several nights now.

"What's your problem?" Ed mumbles.

Roger rounds on him, blue eyes ablaze. " _My_ problem?" he roars. He seizes the half-empty mug from his partner's hand and tips its contents down the sink. The smell had been obvious the second he walked into the kitchen. The expensive whiskey Erica had gifted them had gone down at an alarming rate. Odd, given that Roger hadn't had a single drop since their anniversary dinner.

"It's nine in the fucking morning" the drummer spits, "What are you playing at?"

Ed tuts, reaching over to retrieve another cigarette. The carton was empty. He has to grapple with the box for several seconds before he notices. Roger rolls his eyes at the spectacle and makes a point of hiding his own smokes.

"Your sympathy is touching."

"Why should I feel sorry for you? You don't tell me anything anymore. You vanish for hours every day and refuse to tell me where you've been."

Ed stands up quickly, kicking his chair back. He raps white knuckles on the tabletop, fragile temperament doing nothing to ease the spinning in his head. "Perhaps I'm fucking some other guy behind your back?"

"Is that supposed to be _funny_?" his partner snarls, stalking over to another corner of the room. Anywhere he didn't have to look at him. Roger barely recognized him anymore. He wanted to be supportive, to try and understand why the man he loved was in such a state, but seeing what he'd done to himself made it too painful.

"Wouldn't be entirely out of character given how you and I started off" Ed retorts. With an unsteady gait, he maneuvers himself over to the sink, suddenly acutely aware of how dry his throat was. He casts a thought to the gin he knew the couple had concealed in one of the overhead cupboards. Maybe when his lover stormed off, as he no doubt would, he'd be able to mix himself something for the day ahead.

Today was shooting day for his and Erica's new television show. It had taken a great deal of planning to get the pilot organized. The company had to hire a larger studio than anticipated, tickets in great demand.

"We've been in a good, honest relationship for ten months. Why get all high and mighty now?" Roger questions impatiently.

"He's dying". Ed coughs hard, trying in vain to dislodge the lump that settled in his throat. "The guy I cheated on to be with you. Got AIDs."

The drummer notices tears begin to build up in the other man's eyes. He whimpers behind his hand, gripping onto the edge of the sink with everything he had. "That's where you've been" he realizes quietly, instinct to comfort him overriding his fury, "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Saying it aloud makes it too real."

Ed shrugs off the comforting hand that settles over his shoulder. He paces restlessly across the floorboards, biting at his fingers, nails already anxiously chewed off some days prior. Craig's condition was merciless in its progression. He could barely speak some days, too exhausted to lift his head. Fierce lesions ravaged his body. Pneumonia had struck, too. Slowly, _cruelly_ , his body was giving up on him.

Made Ed constantly aware of how he'd betrayed him.

"We can find someone for you to talk to. A counselor or something" Roger suggests, "I could go with you to the hospital-"

The cackle Ed gives is dry and chilling, just bordering on manic. "Yes, I should take you to see the man we both fucked over."

Roger waves his hand dismissively. Anger bubbled up again. He'd never been blessed with patience. "I just want to _help_ " he pleads.

Ed aims a sharp kick at his toppled chair, sending it spinning across the kitchen floor. "You _can't_ " he yells, "Someone I care about is slipping away bit by bit and there's nothing I can do except wish I'd been kinder to him. You have no idea what that's like, to lose a friend."

"I _do_."

The statement dripped with poison, but there was no lie in it. Something flashes in the drummer's eyes. Intense sorrow. Pain he'd never known before. Ed finds it throws him off. "What does that mean?"

Roger retreats into himself, defeated. An ugly, unspoken truth haunts him, one he'd promised not to reveal for the time being. _Fuck_ , it hurt though. Watching just _one_ person dear to him fade away was difficult enough.

At least Ed could be saved.

Not that he'd make it easy for himself.

"Now who's keeping secrets?"

"Just fuck off, yeah?" Roger scatches, tossing his keys his way.

Ed almost tips over trying to catch them, fingers fumbling in a drunken attempt to grip them. He manages to single out the key to the front door and waggles it tauntingly at his boyfriend.

"Consider me gone."

* * *

Erica maintains a cheerful tone over her cell, keen to sound composed and not like someone who'd just been vomiting violently. She does her best to pay attention while Brian speaks. It was an important job he was tasking her with. She didn't take on the opportunity with enormous enthusiasm, but there was no one left for him to turn to.

"Anita and I's reservation is at seven" the guitarist repeats, "We should be back around ten."

"And Emily usually goes to sleep around eight?" Erica checks. She scribbles the details on the back of her show notes, not trusting her currently _addled_ brain to memorize it all. She felt as if she was going around the twist lately.

Thinking clearly might have been easier if the hospital hadn't taken its time getting the results of her test back to her. Just over a month had passed since that blasted visit, and no definite conclusion had been passed her way. It just so happened to have been the most hectic month of her career.

A female technician pokes her head into the bathroom, someone wittering away through her headset. She gives the thumbs up. The crew was ready to go.

"I'm sorry to dump this on you" Brian laments.

"Don't be daft" Erica insists, "You and Anita deserve some quality time."

Anita had made a wonderful addition to the gang. Always bright and warm. She and Brian made a perfect couple.

After a final bashful apology from Brian, Erica glances over the notes she'd made with no small amount of trepidation. Little Emily wasn't the problem. Indeed, she was a delight, far from demanding. But she was a _baby_ , precisely what Erica didn't want to be around given her ongoing scare. Babysitting was a test she didn't feel prepared for. The exam to determine how qualified she was to be a mother.

It was a lack of credentials she'd have to fret over another time.

Another daunting, though arguably less life-changing, task awaited her: Hosting the first episode of hers and Ed's chat show.

A sizeable audience had gathered, chatting excitedly amongst themselves in tiered seating. A bay of cameras stood ready, pointed at different angles towards a well-lit stage. In the absence of any other ideas, the program had officially been titled ' _The Sunday Show_ '. A minor dance with the BBC's scheduling later, and they'd actually managed to have it penciled in for Sunday. Ed and Erica had protested at first, claiming it took some of the irreverence away.

At least they filmed it on a _Friday_.

The guest list was a comfort. The regulars from Blackadder, for a good laugh. Two activists on the forefront of AIDs awareness within the LGBT+ community, to inject some meaningful discussion into the proceedings. Lastly, a world-famous musician. It was a formula that had worked with great success on the radio.

Their musical guest passes by with flawless confidence, aiming a wink Erica's way with sparkling eyes.

"Well, I'm definitely pregnant now" she breathes, heat rising in her cheeks. She'd already giggled her way through a chat with the singer backstage, attempts to prepare him for the interview lost to a giddiness she could have sworn she'd abandoned several celebrities ago.

But this was _David Bowie_.

Hormones swirling furiously, Erica pulls herself together. A slurred voice from across the set does the trick in the end. With weak knees, she flies over to intercept her co-host, swaying precariously on the spot, face a matter of inches away from David's.

"Your eyes are weird" Ed notes.

"Very perceptive of you" the singer swipes.

"Very cute, though."

"Not so bad looking yourself, mate."

The two men glide past each other with mischievous grins. Sedately Erica leads her friend away from the view of the audience and around the corner. A gentle, steering touch escalates, and soon she finds herself grasping him by the collar. "The biggest break of our careers and you're off your head" she snaps.

Ed leans in to kiss her. She recoils, his breath nauseatingly potent. "This isn't a joke, Ed."

"I'm not laughing" he shrugs.

"What are you on?" Erica demands. Alcohol, obviously. But his uneven gaze was weirdly vacant. His muscles twitched ever so slightly beneath her grip. Cocaine again? Or worse?

Annoyingly, Ed just shrugs again. "Bit of this, bit of that."

Erica swears in an undertone. She understood why his emotions were scattered. Craig had been handed a death sentence. She hoped she'd never have to watch a friend of hers waste away as he did.

But her friend's refusal to deal with his feelings properly frustrated her. Every attempt she'd made thus far to get to him had been shot down. This wasn't the first occasion he'd turned up to work fucked up, either. The last planning meeting before filming had been concluded a full hour early because of his behavior.

"Are you good to do this show or do I need to go on alone?" The prospect makes Erica shiver. She'd always said they either did things together or not at all.

Ed nods, focusing every speck of energy that wasn't soaked in booze into acting sober. He straightens up, left with nothing but a dopey grin. Erica slaps him to get rid of that too.

"As soon as we're done here, I'm taking you to someone" she warns, shifting him in the direction of the stage. He struggles to keep a steady stride at first. Cheers from the audience at the hosts' reappearance embolden his steps. He sweeps into a bow theatrically.

Then almost trips over his chair and into David Bowie's lap.

Erica exhales loudly. She'd kill for a cigarette. She wouldn't dare, though, given _you-know-what_.

It was going to be a _very_ long show.

* * *

Little Emily gargles contentedly, surprised yet again to find Erica hiding behind her hands. They'd been playing the game for a good ten minutes now. Her babysitter had only kept it up so long because she was frightened of the baby crying.

A small droplet of drool on the child's chin provides Erica with an excuse to stop. She wipes it away with a damp cloth, unsuccessfully masking her joy when Emily giggles. The baby was too cute for her own good, a gorgeous blend of her parents. At quieter intervals, Erica had found herself wondering what a combination of her and John would look like. What features would the child inherit? His eyes, with any luck. And her hair, curly and black as the ace of spades. How would the contrasting white and brown of their skin tones mix?

Beautifully, no doubt.

Erica realizes the prospect was distracting her from her charge yet again. The daydreaming helped, actually.

Maybe babies weren't so terrible?

That didn't mean _she_ was ready for one though. She'd chased the hospital up on her test. They'd admitted an administerial error on their end and promised to call her with the results within twenty-four hours.

The TV show had gone according to plan at least. A fantastic time had been had by all. The editors would cut out all the moments where Ed had fallen over, even if the audience had laughed at each and every occasion, mistaking it for a planned bit. Ed had been most impressed with himself by the time the cameras stopped rolling. He wasn't out of the woods, though.

He walked out of the counseling session Erica drove him to.

Someone knocks on the front door of the May household and subsequently lets themselves in.

Emily's bottom lip quivers worryingly at the interruption. Erica braces herself, clueless as to what to do if the child started wailing.

The tears never arrive. John sees to that the second he enters the sitting room. He dumps the supplies from under his arm and dives onto the carpet, a new toy in his hands. A stuffed badger, cuddly and petite, fitting just perfectly in the baby's chubby little fingers.

Erica greedily tears into the bag of chips she'd requested. Babysitting was hungry work.

"You sounded like you were in danger over the phone," says John.

"She was staring at me. I didn't know what to do."

He turns down her offering of a chip, too engrossed in the way his bandmate's daughter gently plods the toy along the carpet. She squeaks as the badger takes a detour over his face, pausing in its travels to kiss his nose.

"She's adorable" John coos, enamored as always.

Despite herself, butterflies begin to float about Erica's stomach. He was so good with kids. Always knew how to make them laugh, how to keep them entertained. Freddie had remarked that he was born to be a father first, then a superstar. It didn't make her feel awkward about her own lack of experience as she feared it might. Quite the opposite. It was comforting, to be with someone so instinctively brilliant at home life.

Made the results of her test a little less daunting.

"Just think how adorable our kids will be" John reflects, unphased by trail the toy badger forged through his hair.

Okay, maybe she was still a little scared.

The butterflies quicken in their flight, stirring her sickness. Erica sets her chips aside and gets to her feet, Emily babbling cheerfully in the background. She just had to quietly retreat to the bathroom for a few moments and she'd be fine again. She'd be the best babysitter the May's had ever had. She'd talk kids with John without fear.

Confidently she bends down to peck both the child and her fiance on their heads. She strides towards the sitting room door, her path clear.

Then faints.

* * *

John sets a plate of cookies down on the nightstand. A fresh pot of tea joins them, the fifth he'd made up that morning. Erica's insistence that he not fret over fell on deaf ears. He'd barely left her side ever since she collapsed, carefully monitoring every move she made when she insisted on staying to look after little Emily. The attention was appreciated, though she wouldn't admit it.

"I'm _fine_ , Habibi" she smiles, lacing her fingers with his, "It was probably the stress of doing the show."

"Ed, too" John acknowledges.

Roger had called not long after they arrived back from Brian's house to reveal that they were no longer a couple. Ed was shacking up with a friend until he could find an apartment of his own. A brief, incoherent conversation with her friend had given Erica some respite. He was safe for now, with someone who could keep an eye on him.

"Will you cuddle me for a little while?" she invites.

John slides onto the bed and wraps soothing arms around her. She sinks her head against his shoulder, hand resting atop the pleasantly fluffy sweater he wore. She's just starting to drift to sleep, calmer than she had been for some time, when the bedside phone sounds.

They groan in unison. Interruptions were commonplace at the minute.

"It's for you," John says, receiver pressed to his ear.

Erica hugs him tightly. "Put it on speakerphone" she mumbles, not content to let him leave her just yet.

They only half-listen to the voice that rings out, too peaceful to really care.

"This is Dr. Milligan. I've got the results of the test you asked for."

Erica's eyelids wrench open again. Oh, _no_.

"They came back positive."

_Oh, no. Oh, no._

"Congratulations, Miss Salib."

The line goes dead. John chuckles to himself, bemused. "Positive?" he queries, "What's positive?" He freezes when he notices her expression, her eyes wide with shock. "Erica?" He follows her line of sight downward, to where her stomach was pressed against his side.

Both stare at her slender middle, silently registering the life that grew there.

"Oh my _God_ ," Erica whispers, breath catching in her throat. Tentatively she touches her abdomen. No jolt came as she'd expected, no movement of any kind. But there _was_ something there. She supposed she'd known from the start. Just been too afraid to admit it to herself.

There was no room for excuse now.

She and John were going to have a baby.


	20. Motherhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erica's impending motherhood makes her reflect on her own upbringing. Roger is bitter after his breakup. Freddie and Jim face a midnight intruder.

Chione Salib adds a final swipe of red to her lips, sedately humming along to the Cream record spinning in the background. Pleased with her appearance, she shimmies over to the record player, turning the volume up ever so slightly. The tenants below would complain as they often did. She could live with that. They were the kind of folk she thrived on pissing off.

They'd been opposed to her existence ever since she and her daughter moved into the building, claiming the presence of ' _people like them_ ' would cheapen the neighborhood somehow. Chione didn't let it bother her. She'd faced far worse in the decade since she'd traveled to England.

A little girl steps quietly into the room, a teddy bear cradled under the sleeve of a floral nightgown. She reaches a small hand under the mess of curls atop her head to rub her eyes. "'Iilaa 'ayn tadhhab, mama?" ten-year-old Erica asks sleepily.

"English, little dove" Chione reminds her softly, "Joni and Dawn will be here soon, and you know how confused they get."

She takes her daughter's hands in her own, lifting her so her bare feet rested atop her boots. Together they sway along to the music, humming along to the colorful picture Eric Clapton's guitar painted for them. Erica hops off her mother's shoes to break into a boogie of her own. She wiggles her arms about enthusiastically. Chione mindfully moves a nearby lamp out of the danger zone.

The little girl quickly wears herself out. She leans against her mother's legs, hugging her bear tightly. "Do you have to go, mama?" she questions.

"Only for a few hours, Habibti" Chione comforts, crouching down to meet her eye-to-eye, "You'll have a lovely time with Joni and Dawn. And I'll be back in time to read you a story."

Erica clings ever tighter, wanting to make her message clear.

There was no Mr. Salib around. He'd proven himself entirely useless the moment he discovered he was to be a father. With nothing left to keep her in Egypt, Chione had looked elsewhere. She'd managed to explore a fair bit of Europe by the time she arrived in England, by then too heavily pregnant to go any further.

For convenience's sake, they settled in rural Kent for a while, in a village full of frightfully conservative people. They'd made the move to London two years ago, in 1970, eager for a more diverse environment.

"Can't I come with you?" Erica hopes.

Chione kisses her forehead fondly. She loved her little girl more than anything.

"I don't think they let ten-year-olds into rock clubs" she reasons, "In the meantime, why don't you pick out some more records to play?"

It's enough to distract her daughter, who hops over to her mother's vinyl case quicker than anything. Muttering sweetly to herself she files through the collection. She draws a Fleetwood Mac album out straight away, her favorite band. Quite an array forms, everything from The Who to Ritchie Valens. 

The occupants of the apartment across the hall arrive as expected. Joni and Dawn, a committed couple, both teachers in training. They were the only tenants who'd been kind to the Salibs upon their arrival.

"Are we having a disco?" Dawn cheers, kneeling down beside the record player to help Erica out.

"There's some hairy bloke making his way up the stairs" Joni notes, "I thought you were into Mods?"

Chione sweeps her arms aloft grandly. "Guys, girls, _human beards_. It's all the same to me."

The hairy man in question ends up waiting patiently in the doorway while she fetches her coat. Erica eyes him suspiciously from the carpet. He was quite tall, all heavy leather and shoulder-length locks. A heavy crucifix hung around his neck.

As delightful as the company of the neighbors' was, Erica makes one final attempt to get her mother to stay. "You can just listen to the music here, mama" she urges.

Chione sighs. It was always a struggle to leave her, no matter how long or short. She enjoyed herself as best she could when she was out, claiming she wasn't quietly pining for her little girl when she most certainly was. A friend would be forced to distract her, and that's when time slipped through her fingers.

Every band on that evening would come and go, and she'd chat with each of them at the bar, nursing one last whiskey. Then she'd enjoy a final dance. And a good night snog against the back wall with whatever musician she was seeing at the time.

"I'll be back before bedtime, I promise" she reaffirms. She meant it. Always did.

Beneath his facial hair, her date's expression lightens up, this frightening man dressed in black from head to toe visibly warmed by the love between a mother and her child. Chione kisses him on the cheek. Erica narrows her eyes at him, hoping she might silently communicate a warning to him. It doesn't transfer very well. Ten-year-olds typically weren't the most intimidating people.

"Ready babe?" the date poses, his accent the heavy Birmingham kind.

"Just a sec, Tony" Chione nods. She hugs Joni and Dawn in turn, reminding them of the lasagne she had waiting for them in the oven.

Erica rises onto the very tips of her toes to receive a goodbye kiss from her beloved mother, the only family she'd ever had.

"I love you, habibti."

"I love you too, mama."

* * *

Her mother had been twenty minutes late to bedtime, Erica recalled. It was thirty minutes the time after that. On-time the occasion after _that_. Then back to being late again.

The leather-clad Birmingham guy had stuck around for a little while, then disappeared, as most of her mother's partners did, always taken away by some tour or other. She was never particularly sorry to see them go. Such was her adoration for her daughter, she had very little love to spare.

Erica remembered how she'd been able to repay her mother for her dedication in her final years. Always turning up to visit her in hospital when she could, ready with exciting tales from university. Erica had only ever been late once. Never again, no matter what her social life threw at her.

These were memories she'd found herself reflecting on an awful lot now. She sought lessons from them. What was good about her childhood, and what wasn't.

She'd never been short of love growing up, though those missed bedtime stories did cut at her. Her mother's open mind had been a big plus. But there were times when Erica had wished she might have known more about her father, no matter how dreadful he was. A photograph. His _name_ , even.

She seeks out John, shivering in the February chill on the Garden Lodge patio. He'd be a good father, the _best_. Even prepared to freeze his bollocks off for a quick hit of nicotine. In one of his bursts of protectiveness, his default when he wasn't showering his pregnant fiance with affection, he had declared that none of the others were permitted to smoke around her. Puffing away in adjacent rooms had turned into huddling together like penguins outside.

Erica watched on most enviously. It would be a good seventh months before she could pick up a cigarette again. 

The cocooned lump beside her on the sofa stirs. Freddie pokes his cleanshaven face through his blanket, blinking sleepily at her with sweet brown eyes. He'd quit for the most part. Jim too, in solidarity. Erica hadn't a clue what had prompted this sudden health drive, but she respected it.

"How are you feeling now, dear?" Fred hums, resting his head on her shoulder. With great effort he staves off a yawn, the fire crackling nearby threatening to lull him to sleep.

Erica traces the small curve at the front of her jeans. " _Hungry_ " she realizes. It was a miracle if she could keep her meals down lately. The sickness made work difficult. She'd had to do business with her show's producer of the phone one morning, unable to make it out of her bathroom for all the somersaults her stomach did.

"I could murder some spaghetti" Freddie realizes. He lazily reaches a hand from beneath his cocoon and snaps for Jim. "Darling, would you mind _terribly_ -"

"Already in the pot, love" Jim calls from the kitchen, "You can cook me something fancy next time."

Content that food was on its way, he snuggles back down at the woman's side. "I was referring to the _bigger picture_."

The change in Erica's expression gives her away immediately.

John had asked her how she felt about being pregnant right after Dr. Milligan's call. She'd half expected him to immediately start gushing about this unborn child of his, but instead, he checked in with her. Even asked her if she wanted to keep it. Children weren't a part of her life plan just yet. She'd hoped for a few peaceful years of marriage before bringing a kid into the equation.

And there was so much going on at the BBC now. She wouldn't be able to manage her current workload, _and the work that Ed left behind_ , with a baby to care for.

"I'm just worried I'm not up to it" she admits quietly, "This is something I can't afford to mess up."

Freddie tuts. "You say this about everything. Always so worried about cocking things up" he says, pressing a warm kiss to her cheek, "You're a stronger person than you realize."

"I know you'd rather this have happened when you were ready. But there's some good in leaping into things. What's that little nugget Roger came up with?"

_The best things happen when you don't plan them._

The drummer materializes into the sitting room, trailing thunder in his wake. He throws himself into a vacant armchair, growling indistinguishable profanities under his breath. "Ignore me. I'm a fucking idiot" he dismisses.

Freddie darts from beneath his blanket prison to smack the cigarette from his hand. " _Outside_ " he warns.

Roger gives him the middle finger but doesn't make any effort to get up and join John. Just sits silently, glaring at nothing in particular.

John spies the warm fireplace through the patio door. He stops before he re-enters, withdrawing a small bottle of cologne from his coat to mask the cigarette scent. A mint is thrown in his mouth for good measure. Sometimes he'd brush his teeth multiple times to ensure there was absolutely no way Erica could taste the smoke on him.

He picks up his routine questions the second his foot hits the carpet. "Everything okay, love?" he asks Erica, "Any nausea?"

"Doing pretty well at the minute" she smiles, making room for him on her other side. Jim retrieves a second blanket. The sofa cocoon grows.

"Where's Brian?"

"With _Anita_ " the Irishman coos.

The room whistles childishly.

"He'd better get his pants on at some point" Erica grins, "We're meant to be stargazing again tonight."

The revelation summons John from the tangle of blankets he'd got himself caught up in. "You're not climbing that park fence in your condition" he protests.

It had been pointed out to the pair that there were locations in London that were open at late hours. Neither she nor Brian ever listened. Scaling the perimeter fence of their local gardens was a rite of passage.

"My _condition_? I think I can manage."

"I just think-"

"And I think I'd like to go stargazing."

"Wrap up at least" John concedes.

Roger slumps back in his seat, having retreated briefly for a cold beer. The others blink at him, waiting patiently for his usual frustrations to bubble over.

Ed's departure from his life had left its mark. An accidental revelation from Erica that her friend was already shacking up with another man had brought about a blood great fissure. Roger navigated his heartbreak in various ways. The company of random women he met at clubs was his favorite form of comfort.

Ed barely seemed to realize that he'd fallen out of a loving relationship. Truly, he was conscious of very little. Not even the major television show that he appeared on every week. The worse Craig got, the more he needed to force himself to be happy.

The gangs' offers of help had amounted to nothing so far.

"Met a nice girl. Debbie" Roger reveals. He spits the words despite their supposedly happy meaning. "She does those Cadbury adverts on the telly."

Erica gasps, the quick inhalation of air stirring her unsettled gut. "You're fucking the girl from the Flake advert?"

Her hormones had reacted quite rapidly to the appearance of the lovely blonde on her television screen, sensually nibbling on the chocolate with puckered red lips. She'd made John sit and eat one that night. He hadn't quite captured the sexuality of the original but she ended up ripping both their clothes off anyway.

"She's nice. Very smart" Roger reveals. His lips purse angrily, the wounds of his breakup still fresh and raw. "And she doesn't take breakfast with a shot of Jack."

* * *

"I think we ought to spread the A-list guests out a bit. We don't want interest peaking four episodes in."

Erica surveys the list of confirmed guests for The Sunday Show. It was an impressive array for a brand new program. The pilot hadn't even been released yet. She makes some notes on the paper, marking the most impressive names with a small star. She slides it over to her producer, confident in her decision.

Her bosses, the omnipresent _Mrs. Aitken_ and _Mr. Reed_ who'd saved her and Ed from Mr. Michaels back in '85, had granted more responsibility to the show's hosts than first anticipated. On the radio, they'd had to wait for approval on their ideas. The was no such block with the television crew.

It was freeing and intimidating.

The latter especially, so long as Ed continued to stew in his mania.

He rocks up to the meeting late, as usual, dressed for home rather than the office, and sporting an inebriated grin. "What did I miss?"

"Most of it" a disgruntled team member utters.

Erica slides her notes over to him so he could catch up. He pats her hand appreciatively. She catches sight of a mark on his shirt sleeve, small but dark enough on the blue fabric to be noticed.

 _Blood_.

A shiver tears its way along her spine, the chill so fierce she has to grip the edge of the table. Ed snorts at her, oblivious to stain left on the crook of his elbow, too cliche a location for any other conclusion to be reached.

"We're getting _Elton John_!" he cries, tapping the name on the guest list. He squeals again when a member of production points out that he was the one who'd negotiated with the singer. Ed nudges his co-host playfully. "You sure John's alright with you hanging out with all these rockstar types? Now you're pregnant, I mean."

Several brows shoot up around the table. Through gritted teeth, Erica accepts everyone's congratulations. She'd been planning to announce it on her own terms.

"Wasn't your mum always out with bands and such like? Family trait."

Erica scowls at him. Troubled or not, his words still bore consequence. It was a minor issue, she supposed, but his announcing of her pregnancy irritated her. It was her news to share. What else might he give away while hopped up on God knows what? A recurring nightmare of hers was that she'd be outed as bisexual to her colleagues against her will. It was something she'd always suspected Matt would do. She'd never thought she'd find herself wondering whether her best friend was capable.

Ed also knew the conflict he stirred up. Going by the way he grinned, he'd counted on it. A child she and John hadn't expected, and ongoing internal debate about her mother, were sore points he was well aware of.

He cracks on as normal, even sparking up a cigarette while he engaged in the meeting. Erica gets up and sits on the opposite side of the table, suddenly taking onboard John's worries about her being near smoke.

Ed pauses, stealing a torn glance at her, at the distance she'd put between them. There's his usual drunken anger, too easily provoked. But hopelessness too. As though in that one small action she'd made him realize that her support wasn't something he could take for granted.

" _Right_ " he stutters, "So what week are we having Carrie Fisher on?"

* * *

Jim wakes abruptly, the ache of a full bladder tearing him from what had been a very pleasant dream. He and Freddie had been relaxing on sun loungers in Ibiza, sipping contentedly on cocktails. Paradise, peaceful and perfect. Alas, they were still in London.

With a grunt, he climbs out of bed, shuffling into a fluffy pair of slippers. He's half-way along his usual route to the bathroom when he spots his husband peering through the bedroom window.

Freddie gestures wildly with his hand. "Darling, there's someone on the wall" he curses.

 _Surely not_. Jim patters along anyway, confident he'd just see an oddly shaped shadow cast onto the brick wall surrounding Garden Lodge. Maybe a stray cat, an indirect device of his beloved's to hint at wanting another pet.

To his surprise, there was someone on the wall. With some difficulty, they try to maneuver themselves over the top, several times threatening to fall right back into the road. The two men were too enraptured to call for security of some kind. Their confusion reaches an abrupt end, of course, when the intruder finally lands on the lawn.

Jim hurries off to call someone. No sooner had he dialed, Freddie was beckoning him towards the window again.

The intruder was looking right at them. The dim lamps on the sidewalk beyond cast just light on his face. A yellow glow glares against auburn curls. The rim of a round pair of spectacles catches Freddie's eye.

 _Ah_.

In their robes and slippers, they find themselves desperately brewing hot drinks for the man. Several throws were wrapped around his shoulders and across his lap. He'd been practically blue by the time they reached the front door. Cups of water were offered to him too, to offset anything he might have had. They didn't like to think how long he'd been wondering the winter night, all alone.

"Wanted to go to Erica's initially" Ed mumbles, "Felt like an inconvenience. Didn't want to ruin her and John's happy families."

She'd tried to confide in him about her anxieties, about the guilt she felt for not being more excited about becoming a mother. 

The husbands exchange a sorrowful look. They sit either side of their supposed burglar, keeping close despite the cold that radiated off him.

"And Roger's isn't an option anymore" Ed rambles on, "He told me to _fuck off_ last time we spoke-"

"It's two in the morning" Jim points out, "Why are you out and about on your own?"

Freddie throws warm arms around the younger man. He cradles his head against his shoulder, whispering fatherly words when he begins to weep. Jim fetches a box of tissues from the kitchen. They're quickly worked through.

Ed had been so frightened of the pain he felt in the face of Craig's illness. He'd blocked it all up, built a wall against it with whatever he could find. The dam had burst. There was no escape available. It had to come out.

" _Craig_ " he sniffs, the vicious voices in his head deafening despite his grief.

"Your friend in hospital" Freddie recalls.

The situation had touched both him and Jim especially, for reasons they hadn't yet disclosed to the most of the gang.

"The guy I hurt" Ed laments, "It fucking _sucks_. Wishing you'd been better to someone while they were still around-"

"I'm sure Craig forgives you, mate" Jim reasons. 

Their friend whimpers at the name. They'd never seen him so hysterical. This formerly bright, cheery young devil thrown down unceremoniously by invisible prosecutors who declared him a horrible person, unworthy of the love he'd enjoyed with Roger.

"He does" he chokes, "He _did_."

"What happened, darling?"

For once, Ed doesn't find himself craving anything. Things that might keep his sadness at bay, those temporary highs that made him feel he was a decent person after all.

He gives in. A lonely, excruciating moment.

"He _died_."

Freddie and Jim hug him tightly.

"He's gone, and-"

Jim rushes off to brew another cup of coffee. The late hour didn't matter. They'd stay up as long as he needed. "Go on, my love" Freddie urges softly.

"And I think I need help."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asking for help takes a lot of courage, but it's worth it :)
> 
> Special points for whoever guesses who Chione's date was
> 
> Here's the Cadbury advert for reference: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVia3SqoP-A


	21. Doing All Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang rallies around Ed in hospital. Erica and John enjoy a domestic moment. Ed reaches out to Roger.

Erica wakes to an empty bed and the sounds of DIY going on a few doors down.

She can hear John cursing beneath his breath the closer she gets to the spare room. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she gently pushes the door open. Daffodil painted walls are bathed in crisp, morning light. The room remained empty, save for a half-constructed bassinet.

Its remaining parts were spread around the carpet, a confusing mess of bolts and strips of wood. John greets his love with weary eyes. "Morning" he speaks hoarsely, the crib almost complete in its defeat of him. Erica casts a sympathetic look. She strokes his hair while he leans his head against her legs.

"You've done so much for this house. Give yourself a break, Habibi" she urges, "We won't need a cradle for a while yet."

She'd woken feeling unsteady as per. Nausea would follow suit soon enough. In a moment of fragility, curled up on a bathroom floor in the BBC, she'd screamed that she couldn't face seven more months of sickness and aching. Her newly-recruited midwife had reminded her that the birth part of pregnancy wasn't exactly a joy ride either. "It's always worse with your first" she'd so helpfully pointed out.

Erica apologized to her bump every time she started to cave. She _did_ love the child. Absolutely, she'd enjoy being a mother once the damn thing was out. But everyone had made it seem as though women were _obliged_ to enjoy pregnancy. It made her feel odd, to be so uncomfortable with it.

At least she wouldn't be alone.

"I was excited when it came" John murmurs, "Wanted to put it up right away. Thought I'd cheer me up."

"What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing" he mutters darkly. Erica doesn't push him. He'd come to her with it when he was ready.

"I'll give you a hand" she invites, claiming a screwdriver. The instructions weren't very helpful. And it looked as though there were far too many parts than needed. "What the _fuck_ -" The screw she attempts to drive into one of the bassinet's legs flies out with a life of its own.

John peers at her adoringly, lips sleepily curling upwards. "You're so wonderful" he exhales.

"I am, aren't I?" Erica fires cheekily. She kisses him tenderly then returns to her work. DIY was evidently not her field, but she was determined nonetheless. Besides, it was nice to spend time with her fiance before the sickness and Ed related disasters she usually suffered daily began.

"But _really_ " John maintains, "I know you didn't want kids so soon. And I hope you don't feel like you have to be excited about it just because I am."

Erica cradles his cheek fondly. Upon their reconciliation last year, they'd vowed to listen to one another better, tired of old arguments. John had come to understand her to a depth only Ed had ever been privy to. Took it in his stride. Constantly moved her with how considerate he could be. " _Thank you_ ," she says.

"I'd be totally against the idea if I was with someone else". She couldn't bear to think how freaked out she'd be if Matt had ever knocked her up. Even with lovely Morten she'd never have managed it. "I'm not going to pretend I'm _loving_ having something growing in my stomach, but with you around I'm not so afraid. I know we're going to raise the best damn child possible."

The cradle lies neglected while the couple gazes at one another, content to be two idiots in love.

"I suppose this means we can't have our summer getaway in Bali" Erica sighs. Her due date was in August. Loose ideas they'd had for their weddings had typically fallen around that time, followed by a honeymoon at their favorite beach house.

They'd considered doing it all before the baby arrived, but work demanded Erica remain in London for the next few months.

"We'll work something out" John nods. He yawns, eyes crinkling sweetly.

"That's it" Erica declares, throwing her tools down, "This damn crib can definitely wait". John vows to invite Brian round at a later time, joking that they keen scientific minds ought to make short work of the task.

Slowly he clambers to his feet, gracelessly pulling his fiance up with him.

"Let's go back to bed" she proposes. Doubtless, there were better things to do while her stomach was settled, but crawling back under the sheets seemed too inviting. She rolls her eyes at the mischief that immediately etches itself on the man's face. "To _sleep_ , prick. You've already got me in enough trouble with the other thing."

John bats his lashes innocently. With a swift swoop downwards he kisses the small bump of her belly. "Sleep sounds wonderful, _rohi_."

The word catches her by surprise. He'd just called her his _soulmate_. "Where did you learn that?" she questions, impressed. 

"I'm a very intelligent man" he answers boldly. He didn't opt for smugness very often, but it always worked well on him. Made him irresistible. Of course, he knew precisely what he was doing by unfurling that cocksure grin of his.

Erica loops a finger through the collar of his shirt, guiding him assuredly toward their bedroom. "Smart enough to know what I'm thinking?"

He lets himself be pushed back, only too happy to submit to her.

"I have some ideas."

* * *

Erica and John's fun doesn't last all too long. For good reason, really. The phone shrieks with its usual interruptions. On the other end this time was Jim, apologetic from his first breath for not keeping her abreast of the situation earlier.

The situation was _Ed_.

After pouring his heart out at Garden Lodge, he'd asked Freddie and his husband if they were prepared to take him to hospital. They'd agreed. It became obvious as the younger man talked that he was worse for wear, a lethal cocktail crawling its sorry way through his veins.

Craig's sudden death had pushed him as far over the edge as he'd ever been.

Erica finds her friend hooked up to a handful of machines, some beeping incessantly, others pumping medicines in him through small tubes. He was frightfully pale. Gaunt, too. She'd not noticed how thin he'd become of late. He was of clear mind now, though. Rid of the unpredictability various substances had left him with.

He'd admitted that he'd first considered her when he left Craig's bedside but had refused to threaten the domestic bliss she could now look forward to with John. She'd almost slapped him for that. Instead, she broke down in tears, rudely reminded of all the opportunities where she might have been kinder to him. Helped him through his pain, rather than dismiss him.

"Never thought I'd see a woman weep for me" Ed remarks dramatically, a glimmer of his old self.

Age twenty-four, he'd hit rock bottom. _Record time_ , he'd joked to himself.

In a haze of doctors and medication, he could scarcely remember what had made him realize he sat at the bottom of a pit.

He'd been present when Craig succumbed, spluttering and in agony. The worse sight he'd ever seen. He'd attempted some comforting words for his current partner but found he could only wail. That's when he'd run from the hospital and onto the street. Swallowed, snorted, injected everything he had left on him. It was a miracle he'd made it to Freddie and Jim's.

That was it. _Freddie_. 

The singer had revealed something about himself that had made Ed realize life was worth hanging onto.

Craig had tried to instill the same in him, but he'd been too blinded by pain to listen.

"I'm not ready to let go just yet" he says, "I'm not going to pretend that I'm _great_. I've still got all these awful voices in my head telling me I'm a coward for getting into this state."

Erica kicks her shoes off and snuggles against him, mindful of the IV lines connected to him. She'd faced enough demons of her own to know she couldn't banish those voices herself. A simple _fuck off_ wouldn't do. Recovery was a process he'd have to navigate himself.

"They've told me I should go to rehab" Ed reveals, "Said it'd be good for me. Stop me filling myself with poison whenever I'm sad."

The prospect was daunting. The magazines were packed with sordid tales of showbiz stars locking themselves away in state of the art facilities. All those rockstars who'd he'd been lucky enough to be in contact with in recent years who'd torn themselves apart with drink and drugs.

He'd join the ranks of those failures when the press got wind of his problem.

"What about the TV show?" he notes. The look his co-host gives him lets him know how stupid a thought that was given his current state. "Well I can't do much if I'm in rehab."

"Fuck the show" Erica states, "You need to take care of yourself."

It could wait. It all could. No matter what their bosses said.

They either did things together or not at all.

* * *

John aims a peanut at Brian's head. The hit makes the guitarist miss a chord. The graceful melody the group had been enjoying slips just enough to reduce them all to giggles.

Ed had taken full advantage of Brian's offer to play for him. Together they'd rattled through a good two albums worth of material. _Crazy Little Thing_ had been requested three times overall. _Doing All Right_ had claimed first place. Ed always sung the lines ' _Yesterday my life was in ruin, now today I know what I'm doing_ ' with particular enthusiasm.

“Could you do Fat Bottomed Girls?” he asks, “Craig always called that his anthem.”

“He called _you_ his fat bottomed girl” Erica snorts.

Jim returns to his seat mid-song, tucking his cell phone away to clap along to the chorus. The staff who passed the room cast puzzled glances at the group, but they didn’t care. Complaints from surrounding patients would be worth it if it cheered Ed up.

“No Roger then?” he clocks on, observing the Irishman and his husband whispering in the corner.

The drummer had already been on his mind. Quite absurdly the tune had reminded him of all the times the blonde had slapped his arse and called him pretty.

”He must be away from the phone, sweetheart” Freddie offers comfortingly, keen to spare him any hurt, “We’ll try again shortly.”

”Thats okay. He’s allowed to be busy.”

Erica regards her friend with surprise. She’d forgotten how level-headed he could be sober.

They all hoped there was some chance for the couple, somewhere down the road. Debbie sounded nice. Roger was at peace for the time being. But he and Ed had seemed so _right_.

“Deaky, I have a request” Ed voices, beckoning the bassist toward his bedside. Theatrically John throws himself to his knees, clutching the younger man’s hand.

”Anything for the invalid.”

”Name the baby after me.”

Erica cackles. He’d get a middle name at the very least.

”What if it’s a girl?” Freddie ponders.

”Girls can be called Ed too” Brian suggests.

Erica collects two peanuts and throws them at the troublemakers. “I’m _not_ calling our kid Ed.”

The child’s namesake sighs. “Worth a shot.”

He snaps his fingers in the air, suddenly aware that he’d never actually given the couple his congratulations. He begins a petition to have him named a godfather while he’s at it.

”It’s so exciting” he gushes, “There’ll be a new addition to our little family.”

His friends smile, inspired by the man’s optimism. He’d hit the worst low of his life and still managed to recognize that there was goodness in the world.

”I really admire you” Brian confesses, “You’re very strong.”

”Not particularly” Ed replies, bowing his head bashfully, a rare sight, “I suppose I just realize that I’m lucky to be alive.”

He nods Freddie and Jim. Silent understanding passes between them. Brian and John feel it too, quietly musing on similar revelations they’d had in the wake of Fred’s news.

Erica’s vision darts between them all. They knew something she didn’t. All of them. Something _serious_.

There’d been hints of it for some time now.

John slips the guitar from his band mates fingers and strums up a bouncy melody. Not one of his own, but a tune they all knew. Corny but wonderful.

_Ob-la-di_

_Ob-la-da_

_Life goes on_

”Nurse!” Ed calls, “They’re torturing me with granny shite.”

Erica finds herself drawn away from her cheerful sways and out into the corridor. Jim keeps a steady hand on her arm. They stop in front of Freddie, his expression grave.

She knew already she’d hate what she was about to hear.

”What is it, Fred?” she poses, her voice diminished by the pounding in her head. Jim tightens his support of her.

” _What_?”

_Ob-la-di_

_Ob-la-da_

_How life goes on_

“Darling, there’s something I need to tell you.”

* * *

Ed catches one of his bruises on the door knob. His own fault. He’d vaulted toward the door expecting it to be open for him. Stupid, really. It wasn’t his apartment anymore.

Erica and John had offered to look after him following his release from hospital, so he could be cared for properly while he recovered. He’d gladly accepted, not wanting to go back to the dark place he’d been staying at during his breakdown.

Together they’d discussed his options. Rehab seemed the best course. The couple had reached out to several places on the outskirts of the city who’d be willing to take him in.

Exhausted but clean, Ed had found himself freed of his hospital bed.

Rather than hide away in the sanctuary waiting for him at John and Erica’s, he’d stopped at his old flat.

He wasn’t sure why. Or what he meant by the trip.

Nervously he knocks on the door. He isn’t allowed much time to contemplate an opening line. Already footsteps were racing along the hallway inside.

Roger sweeps into the doorway. He had various ingredients and sauces dotted along his top. A big meal was underway by the looks of things.

”Honey, you’re home” he coos in his best mock-house wife impression.

He freezes. His face falls. “ _Oh_.”

Ed clenches his fist at his side. _Fuck_. He wasn’t stable enough for this.

”Sorry” Roger mumbles, “I was-“ His voice trails into nothing. Shame flashes in his baby blue eyes.

”Expecting someone else” his ex answers for him.

 _Debbie_. The stunning blonde from the adverts. Ed bore no grudge. He accepted full responsibility for his and Roger’s breakup. Perhaps she’d be good for him. Show him the love he deserved.

”I was going to come and visit you, but they said you’d already been discharged.”

”That’s okay.”

Ed pinches himself out of sight. He could feel tears beginning to stir. There’d been a lot of that lately. Roger had a hot date on the way. He wouldn’t impose on him by breaking down again.

”I’m glad you’re okay” Roger says, “ _Really”._ Tentatively he moves his hand. His fingers brush Ed’s, toying with the idea of lacing them together.

Ed backs off. The pleasure he felt when Roger’s skin touched his frightened him.

The drummer makes a poor effort to mask his disappointment. Miserably he returns his hand to his pocket. “We’ll have to meet up some time, you and me” he recommends, “Go for a drink or something.”

”Maybe not a _drink_ ”. Ed attempts to follow his quip with a chortle, but the sound dies in his throat.

”Oh, blimey. Yeah, sorry.”

Maybe he ought to talk about his possible trip to rehab?

Roger glances at his watch uneasily.

Or maybe not.

”Well, I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy your date.”

Ed decides on a quick getaway. Tears lingered in the corner of his eyes. He refused to let them fall in front of the other man.

But Roger reaches out. Catches him on the shoulder, drawing him back to the door.

”Wait a minute.”

The drummer dashes into the apartment. He’s gone for must have been a millennium, going about some mysterious task or other.

What little cheerful guidance Ed could muster in that moment, waiting alone on the doorstep, he overthinks. If fate truly was back on his side, Roger was clearing away all the things he’d had set up for his dinner with Debbie. Put the kettle on. Fix them both up a hot drink they could reconnect over.

When the blonde reappears, finally grinning, Ed suspects his heart might not be deceiving him.

No invitation to come inside arrives. No offer of a cup of coffee and a chat. Debbie was still on her way.

Roger holds out a neatly folded piece of linen. It unravels in the other man’s hand to reveal the words that had amused them both so much in simpler times.

The ‘ _World’s Best Wife_ ’ apron.

”Thought you might want it.”

Ed can barely read it. His vision blurred, cheeks stinging in anticipation of the pain to come. “Thanks” he utters, hollowly.

Roger pulls him in again, for a hug this time. The embrace lingers. The worst torture. A sniffle sounds close to the younger man’s ear. As they part he notices his former lover wipe something from beneath his eye.

”See you around.”

”Yeah. Good to see you, mate.”

Uncomfortably numb, Ed slides onto the backseat of a taxi, the apron clutched against his chest. His and Roger’s old apartment fades away. Erica and John’s safe haven beckoned.

He just about noticed the other taxis that zoomed off in the opposite direction. Any one of them could contain Debbie, fabulous and healthy, a charming woman excited for an evening with a charming man.

A man who wasn’t his.

Ed supposed he’d discover some catharsis in the interaction later on. Erica would counsel him as she often did, try and seek out the good in the exchange. Indeed, he counted on it. He was desperate for some indication in Roger’s words or actions that a level of love, no matter how small, still existed between them. Because it had felt as though there was none.

And it absolutely fucking sucked.


	22. Strange as Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The TV show runs into problems. Erica and John fight. Roger seeks out Ed before his move to rehab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today’s special guests are Motley Crue
> 
> Chapter title taken from the Cure song ‘Just Like Heaven’

Erica regards her guests and wonders how on Earth she'd managed to keep them under control. They weren't exactly known for their restraint. The dressing room they'd been given had suffered, from what she heard. That didn't matter. Truly, she finds herself somewhat disappointed the band hadn't wrought further havoc. They'd answered hers and Ed's questions entertainingly, but _politely_.

That wouldn't do. She hadn't booked Motley Crue for an easy ride.

"This is a pretty neat studio" Nikki Sixx notes, glancing about the set. It had been upgraded considerably since the pilot. "I kinda figured the BBC would be old-fashioned."

Audiences were reacting enthusiastically to _The Sunday Show_ so far. There had been the odd letter sent to the papers about Ed's bedraggled appearance. And the usual drivel aimed at Erica. One article, penned by _The Daily Mail's_ newest contributor, a man by the name of _Matt_ , claimed she came onto all her guests. His only evidence was that she'd twice dated famous musicians. John and, briefly, Morten. The rumor didn't get much traction. The tabloids had given up the ' _scarlet woman_ ' portrayal long ago.

"It's alright" Erica shrugs, "I quite like the artistic direction you took with your dressing room. I think that style would go well in here."

"I like your thinking" Tommy Lee agrees, getting up from the sofa he sprawled out on to fiddle with the backdrop. He tugs at it a little too hard. The material tears right down the middle, exposing the yards of cable behind. The audience, predominantly young people, roar in approval when his bandmates join in.

Soon entire chunks are being ripped out of the set. Someone even manages to topple one of the expensive lighting rigs hanging overhead. Erica casually ducks out of the way. She and Ed would be blamed for the destruction later on, but she didn't mind. Neither of them did.

Everyone was having a good time, so why give a fuck?

The producers hanging back behind the cameras did. The fiery glares they sported made that clear.

"We're going to leave you now before the building burns down" Ed wraps up, "To sign us off, the boys are going to perform a nice Christian number."

"This one is dedicated to our lesbian viewership" Erica adds, blowing a kiss to the camera, "This is _Girls, Girls, Girls_."

The audience members end up leaving with enormous grins on their faces. The crew assesses the damage to the studio. In the adjacent room, a celebration is underway.

Erica realizes that most nights must involve a party of some kind for the band. They drank and threw things around as though they'd reached an incredible milestone, not completed a television interview. Still, they were interesting company. Always concocting outrageous ways to have fun. Erica is quite engrossed in their sordid scheming, this time involving a seedy strip joint nearby, when she notices Ed split from the group.

"Everything okay?" she asks quietly.

He faces her with tired eyes. He'd stopped lying about how he felt since his breakdown. He never felt _good_ , though. _Okay_ at best.

"I can't do much more of this" Ed admits.

Erica sighs. He'd done his best during the last few episodes. The act was exhausting him. It didn't help that so many of the shows ended with _drinks_. Those in the entertainment world weren't known for their restraint. Indeed, Ed had found himself itching ever closer to the bottles of whiskey the band freely passed around.

One of the band’s roadies had mentioned pre-interview that Nikki was pretty hooked on a substance Ed had found himself using at one sorry point.

"That center in Surrey called again. Their program sounds good. I think you should give it a go."

Ed had stayed with his friend and her fiance for two months now. The couple didn't mind. It did them well to see him safe. As the weeks rolled on, however, they'd realized that there was only so much they could do.

Conversations with several rehab facilities outside the city had been handled discreetly, _sensitively_.

"I can't just ditch work" Ed frets.

"You _can_ " Erica reminds him.

He steadies himself with a healing breath. He shoots a final glance towards the party, then takes her hand. "We going home then?"

Erica kisses his cheek and steps back over to the boys to say goodbye. Vince Neil catches her around the waist, thrusting her right into the chaos. She slaps at his hand hard, warning him against touching her again. "We're off" she announces, "Enjoy your evening."

"C'mon, you gotta join in" Tommy urges, blocking her way to the door, "It's us and you versus London tonight, baby."

"It isn't. Besides, I've got a fiance to get back to."

"Fuck that dude" Nikki protests.

Confidently Erica pushes past them, maintaining a cheerful smile. "You know, I think I'll do just that."

* * *

Alas, she wasn't going to _fuck that dude_ that particular evening. John was in a foul mood.

Erica had allowed him his irritable moments. Always gave him space. They'd spent numerous afternoons in the last few weeks in separate parts of the house. John would keep to his basement studio or his preferred lounger in on the patio. Erica would hide away in her study, or busy herself with the flower beds Jim had arranged for her. She'd reminded her lover that hers was always a shoulder he could cry on. He'd not come to her with his troubles just yet. Hadn't found the right words.

There were hard to put together.

His bandmate, his best friend, his _brother_ had a terminal condition. He was allowed his off days.

Erica had barely held off on breaking into tears when Freddie revealed his diagnosis to her. He'd insisted he didn't expect sympathy from anyone. Life wasn't over just yet, and he was determined to enjoy every bit of it. She'd never admired him more. He took it in his stride, brave and incredible and spirited. Ed was buoyed by his attitude. He took it to heart, his way of honoring Craig.

The hope Fred espoused was a comfort. She needed a lot of that lately.

"Your clothes stink of cigarettes" John cites, casting her work threads into the laundry basket.

Erica wraps a towel around her hair, fresh and clean after a hot shower. "Everyone in that studio smokes. I made sure I didn't breathe any of it in". She catches a skeptical look from her fiance. "Don't give me that. I haven't touched a cigarette since December, John."

She was four months along now. All was well. Her sickness had faded a little. In its place she contended with aches and pains. There were insatiable cravings she'd developed, and aversions too. She'd almost thrown up when Ed cooked up scrambled egg, a usual favorite of hers, one morning, the smell turning foul in her nostrils.

"Cigarettes are the least of my problems right now."

John goes about his usual pre-sleep routine with harsh movements, every muscle tensed. " _Problems_ , yes" he mutters, "Having a kid together is a _problem_."

Erica hesitates at her side of the bed. "I was referring Freddie, and to Ed being on his way to rehab" she fires, "But good to know you're still being a prick about the other thing."

He'd claimed to understand why she wasn't ecstatic about being pregnant. She wasn't convinced he actually thought differently. It was just a convenient way of venting his frustrations. No less irksome, though. The chaos gripping their gang wasn't her doing.

"I just wonder whether you're taking this seriously" John challenges, “I mean are you still going to be out till God knows when with rock stars when your due date’s up?”

Erica scowls. “You don’t get to tell me what to do”. John rolls his eyes. He clambers beneath the bedsheets and buries his nose in a book, an icy chill radiating off him.

Even without the raging hormones, Erica would ordinarily have risen to his anger. To her credit, she bites her tongue. “I’ll let that slide because I know you’re not in the best frame of mind right now.”

John looks to her with pointed brows, mouth open, an objection ready.  
  
She’s already heading toward the hallway, ditching her towels for a cosy robe. “But I’m still mad, so I’ll be in Ed’s room. Goodnight, John.”

She shuts the door and paces over to the room Ed currently occupied.

Her friend is already tucked up in bed when he peers in, the curtains closed on another arduous day. Erica slips beside him, nestling against his chest when he instinctively wraps his arms around her.

”What are you doing in here, you silly girl” Ed asks. He doesn’t resist her arrival. Just holds her close. He needed her as she needed him.

” _Don’t_ ” Erica cautions.

Ed leaves it at that.

“Like being back in Munich this.”

Erica smiles into his t-shirt, her memories of that place fond.

Simpler times.

He kisses her forehead lightly and shuts his eyes. They’re both snoring softly before long.

It’s an uninterrupted sleep. Good thing too.

They’d all need every minute of shut eye they could get in the coming days.

* * *

“Ed can’t make it” Erica wheezes. She collapses into her usual seat at the centre of the conference table, worn out after all the stairs she’d scaled.

She’d convinced herself she could run up to the meeting without a problem. The baby had quickly proven her wrong.

”The invitation wasn’t extended to Tetley” a stern voice counters.

Erica’s vision snaps onto the foreboding figure opposite. One of the TV bosses, a supervisor of hers while the _The Sunday Show_ was in production.

”Pardon?”

”We’re here to discuss the next few episodes of the show, which Ed won’t be a part of.”

He’d excused himself from work today to drive up to the rehab in Surrey. Its owners had been kind enough to offer him a tour, to help him get acquainted with the place.

”It’s embarrassing enough that one of our presenters has had to check into one of those places” the producer dismisses, “Production resumes without him.”

Erica sits up in her seat, her senses coming to life again. “It’s _our_ show” she points out, “I can’t do it without him.”

”You’ll have to. You signed a deal.”

”Fuck the deal. We can pick up filming again when Ed’s better.”

The suited folk across the table mumble darkly to one another. They were still annoyed about the Motley Crue-related destruction she’d invited. That was fair.

 _This_ though? They’d offered not a single word of support for Ed. Just assumed she’d crack on as normal without him.

That wasn’t how they worked.

“We’d also like to suggest some revisions to the content offered” the boss goes on, making her wriggle with fury with every syllable, “We feel a lighter, more _traditional_ tone might suit the company better.”

There was no need to question the meaning behind that.

”I’m not ditching my politics so some old white man can have easier viewing” Erica contends, “There’s a thousand shows for people like that. Ed and I want to create content people like _us_ can relate to.”

They’d known she and Ed were opinionated when they hired the pair. It had made them the bane of Mr. Michael’s existence in previous years.

“There’s no need to get hysterical” one of the producers chirps.

“Excuse me?” Erica coughs, tone steady, as it had been the moment her interrogation began. She thought she’d ditched this sort of thing when Mrs. Aitken and Mr. Reed first rescued her and Ed from their old department.

“Go ahead with it all. I mean it. Do what you like”. She slings her bag over her shoulder and pushes her seat back. “I’m off this project.”

The boss stands up, slamming a fist on the tabletop. “I’m warning you, Salib. You can’t just walk away.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing” Erica hurls, “I look forward to hearing from you again when you’ve calmed down.”

She tuts mockingly at him, his lack of restraint amusing. She hadn’t even broken a sweat. And _she_ was the hysterical one?

”You watch you don’t get yourself fired, girl.”

Erica aims a middle finger in the direction of the conference room. She winds her way through the office with her head held high.

At least there was still Top of the Pops. And the Radio 1 show. The jobs she and Ed had enjoyed most.

It had occurred to her that those roles would be rendered tricky while Ed was in rehab. Top of the Pops certainly, though they already presented apart on that.

She had an idea to keep him involved in the radio show, but she’d need to chat with one of the _big_ bosses first.

Not the patronizing kind who cursed her name back at the meeting. The more sympathetic kind.

* * *

Brian withdraws his slender arms from the trunk of the car, checking for a final time that the heavy suitcase he’d carried there was secure.

Content with his work, he pulls the younger man into a loving hug. “All the best, mate” he wishes, “We’ll see you soon enough, I’m sure.”

Ed claps the guitarist on the shoulder appreciatively. He’d not intended on an audience as he made his exit.

He’d already said his goodbyes to John and Erica, the latter bringing him to tears with her parting words. John happened to have two of his band mates over at the time.

He was glad to see Brian before he headed off, the effortlessly kind man forever a godsend.  
  
It wasn’t that Ed didn’t want to say goodbye to Roger. The trouble was, he didn’t know how to do it.

“Can I come up and visit you?” the drummer asks, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

With a wave Brian retreats back into the house, leaving them entirely alone.

“They’re a bit strict on visitors.”

The even expression Roger barely managed crumbles. “I don’t know what to say” he offers weakly.

Ed feels his hands yearn to reach out, to bring him near. He resists. Trying to re-inspire their love would achieve nothing right now.

”Remember how we used to muck about?” the drummer revisits, “Flirting back and forth. Always messing with each other.”

That had been fun. Fucking with the rest of the group, keeping them guessing as to whether they were serious in their attraction. In the end, when that attraction finally came to fruition, the only ones they surprised were themselves.

”You know I love you, yeah? More than I’ve ever loved another damn soul.”

Ed nods. “I love you too.”

Roger takes one step forward, he takes one back.

”I can’t be chasing after you right now” he states, “I’ve got my own shit to deal with.”

Rehab was going to be hard. _Horrible_. But it had to be done.

“You’ve got Debbie” Ed adds.

”What if it stops being fun with her?” Roger argues, defiantly pressing forward again, “What if I realize I shouldn’t have given up on you?”

It was getting hard to move out of his reach. “Please don’t” Ed asks, “I can’t go into this thinking we’ll have something when I come out.”

He wouldn’t be in need of a relationship for a long while. Guilt still stuck with him in Craig’s absence. He needed to sort himself out before he’d let himself fall in love again.

Gingerly he cups Roger’s face with his hands, biding a silent goodbye to the sweet blue eyes he’d come to cherish so dearly. He presses their lips gently together.

Their last kiss, as tender as their first.

”See you around, Taylor” Ed bids, swinging his car keys about his finger. He settles behind the wheel and turns the ignition. The radio kicks in automatically. The Cure’s _Just Like Heaven,_ a song that always made him think of summer.

Roger feels his own goodbye turn to ashes in his mouth. Numb, he watches the car pull away from the sidewalk. He remains in the road until it’s gone from view, charging along a path to brighter horizons.

He manages to get his words out, but regrets that the man he loved wasn’t around to hear them.

”Until next time, Tetley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All comments and thoughts appreciated :)


	23. The Seasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erica and John reconnect.

Mr. Reed was not impressed with Erica. Like a disappointed father he regards her, staring defiantly at him across his desk. She'd appeared at his door with an idea to minimize the gap left by Ed, all guns blazing as usual. She hadn't realized she was walking willingly into the principal's office.

"A thousand pounds worth of damage" Mr. Reed reveals, tossing a memo from the TV crew her way. Erica studies the list with intrigue, curious as to how four people could ruin so much. "It'll be coming out of yours and Ed's pay packets for this month."

Erica doesn't protest. She knew she deserved it. She'd egged the Motley Crue boys on.

"I'd also like you to apologize to the crew members who had to repair everything."

She nods attentively. Neither she nor Ed had considered the effort it would take to put everything back together again. All the liberties they'd been allowed in designing the set, all the thought that had gone into the backdrops and technical set up, undone for a quick laugh. 

It hadn't been worth it, no matter how much the audience had loved the destruction.

"Now I hear the show has no presenters left" Reed comments.

"I can't do it without Ed, sir."

 _The Sunday Show_ was their shared brainchild. It wouldn't work without Ed's input. Wouldn't be fair, either, him being stuck in rehab while she lived it up on stage. For several troublesome moments she wonders whether Mr. Reed will take the side of the bosses and insist she carry on. Demand she fulfills her obligations. Maybe he'd fire her outright? By her own admission she'd behaved arrogantly. Others at the company had been dismissed for less.

"We'll shelve the TV show for now. Revive it at a more convenient time" he decides.

Thank _God_.

"I still expect you to do the radio show. Four days a week."

"Actually, sir, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

She'd talked her idea over with Ed first, during one of the few phone calls he'd been allowed. His counselor had suggested to him that opening up as much as possible would be a necessary accompaniment to physical recovery.

"When he's comfortable, he'll call into the show. Join in with interviews and all the rest as normal" Erica proposes.

"Won't the audience question why he's not in the studio with you?" Mr. Reed questions.

"We've considered that too, sir" she says.

Ed wasn't ashamed to be in rehab. Indeed, he was proud of himself for reaching out for help. He was finally in the best possible place, and, while he needed some degree of isolation from his old life, he wasn't prepared to lie about where he was. Certain low-end tabloids had received hints of his problem. One newspaper explicitly labeled him an alcoholic. It was difficult to deny. He'd drunkenly tripped up, often _literally_ , one too many times in the public eye.

Ed didn't trust anyone in print to handle his story responsibly. He had to reclaim the narrative himself. Put events in his own words. Let it be known that he wasn't a bad person, just a vulnerable one who'd processed his feelings in a terrible way.

"We'll chat once a week about his experiences. How he's finding it. Remove some of the doubt or stigma around going to rehab."

Mr. Reed's countenance brightens a glimmer or two, abandoning the frustration in his hazel gaze to genuine interest. "I like it" he agrees, "Let's go for it."

He manages a smile. Erica sighs in relief. She wasn't getting fired today.

"You might consider having guest hosts on to fill Ed's seat". He emphasizes the word _guest,_ knowing she'd fight any attempt to replace her friend tooth and nail. It wasn't ideal. Not having Ed around was difficult. And even with him phoning into the station, she'd struggle. "I'll trust you to book those guests. I imagine you've got quite an impressive phone book at this point."

As she's stepping toward the office door, Erica pours over the book in her head. She and Ed had never had difficulty in getting people onto the show. They'd queued up for the television version. But she couldn't risk bringing any more prolific troublemakers on air. She'd have no salary left if she oversaw another Crue-level demolition.

Mr. Reed follows a similar train of thought. "Try to bring some vaguely respectable folk on, won't you?" he prompts, "Someone like that lovely fiance of yours. He's a decent chap."

Erica chuckles to herself. He'd never seen John when he was off his head. He was hardly the outrageous rockstar, though. He was more than decent, he was downright delightful. Her lips curl inadvertently into a smirk. "I'll have a think, sir."

* * *

Erica finds John in the studio he'd constructed in the basement. His bass across his lap, he unknowingly burns away the midnight oil, entirely absorbed in his own world. A half-empty glass of wine sits atop a vast array of hastily scribbled notes. The early outlines of a new melody. She watches him for a while from behind the glass partition, fascinated.

He hadn't written anything for a good while. Before, he'd been too exhausted from the _Magic_ tour. Lately it had been Freddie's ailing health that distracted him. Made him irritable. He wasn't a total misery. Talking about the baby excited him most. For hours he could chat about the child, contemplating everything from whose eyes they'd inherit to whether or not they'd take an interest in music someday.

Erica listened intently for the most part, his enthusiasm endearing. She still made her anxieties about oncoming parenthood obvious. John tried his best to be understanding, but too often, in his most fragile moments, he'd mistake her fears for reluctance. They'd argue, say things they didn't mean, and stalk off to opposite ends of the house.

She'd worried they were destined for another when she arrived home. A technical fault had pushed the filming of Top of the Pops well into the night. The experience had been daunting already. There was no Ed on set to boost her confidence. No cheeky, pearly grin to look to when she worried she'd make a fool of herself on camera.

John seemed calm. He snaps out of his music-induced trance eventually and smiles softly. He pulls a guitar stool out and sets it beside his own, gesturing for her to join him.

"What you got there?" he asks, nodding to her own wine glass.

"Blueberry juice."

John giggles, a sweet sound made even sweeter by its recent absence.

Erica perches on the stool, unfastening the buttons of her pants. Her bump had been fighting against the material all day. There was little point in trying to hide it anymore, really. She was well into her second trimester now. Loose-fitting threads didn't do the trick. Her inner circle, and most of her colleagues at the BBC were aware she was expecting.

It'd turn up in the newspapers any day now.

"What are you working on?"

"Just a little riff that came to me. It doesn't really have any lyrics yet."

Erica slides a finger along the neck of his bass, the wood cool but smooth against her skin. In vain she tries to pluck out some distinguishable tune from where she sat. John attempts to guide her hands over the right frets. A slightly strangled version of Fleetwood Mac's _Landslide_ escapes somehow. After one especially ambitious note change, Erica had almost ended up on his lap. The music ended there, the couple suddenly aware that they were physically closer than they'd ever been in recent weeks.

"Would you play it for me? Your new riff?" she asks.

John wasn't shy about performing in front of her anymore, never worried that she wouldn't be impressed by what he had to show. He was comfortable singing with her around, too. It always made his heart melt, the way she _gazed_ at him, as if his voice was heavenly and not out of tune.

He picks up a simple refrain, deep and sultry. Like the mature cousin of the _Get Down, Make Love_ riff, Erica thought. The sound goes right to her head, to her hips, to her every fiber. She sways along slowly, focus directed feverishly at the movements his fingers made. He throws several looks her way while he plays, her attentiveness making him sweat in the most glorious way.

The rest of the song comes together in his mind. A steady, dependable drum beat. The odd seductive cry of Brian's guitar. The strikes of an electric piano. Sexy and perfect. Something this dazzlingly unpredictable woman of his would appreciate.

"I love it" Erica voices, reluctantly tearing her eyes from the magic his hands worked.

Beneath the light of the home studio, she reads the ever-shifting scope of his expression. Grey hairs had continued to creep up on him as the months rolled by. Stress left its mark on his features. The wrinkles that appeared around his eyes whenever he smiled had deepened, accompanied now by faint lines along his forehead. He woke tired most mornings.

Erica didn't care. He was still her John, even if he didn't always have that oh-so-familiar sparkle in his eye.

"I think we should talk" she breathes. She forces herself back onto her own stool, hands buried deep in her pockets. John busies his own with his bass, pointlessly touching certain areas of it in a vague attempt to keep himself from sweeping her up.

"We always fall into this trap" Erica goes on, "We don't say what we really mean, and we fall out. We can't afford to keep repeating that cycle, not with a baby on the way."

She stuns herself with her own maturity. It had been decidedly lacking of late. John looks pleased with the assessment, glad that she was acknowledging the task ahead rather than running away from it.

They wait for the other to begin.

John takes the lead, the weight on his chest heavier than ever.

"I'm sorry I've been snappy. Grumpy. A total arsehole, basically" he confesses, "And I'm sorry that I've taken it out on you."

"Likewise" Erica concedes, "I get so defensive sometimes. I don't know why. I've been doing it at work, too. The second anyone confronts me, I put my back up."

She was only ever aware of her defiance after the fact. When it was too late to back down. It had taken her far too long to realize that she'd flipped one of her bosses the middle finger during their last encounter, gathered around the conference table.

"Y'know, there was something Ed said while he was in hospital that really struck me," John says, "About how he was grateful to be alive. With everything that's going on with Fred, it really _meant_ something."

There was no need to skirt around it. Ed had tried to kill himself that day, the pain of Craig's passing too much. Yet mere hours later he'd managed to find some good in _existing_. Life was not something to be taken for granted. It had to be lived to its fullest, not a second wasted.

"Made me think about how grateful I am for this baby. So to see you feel bad about it, _regretful_ even-" John bows his head. "It _hurt_."

A heavy sigh slips through Erica's lips. Her relationship with her guilt varied from day to day. She was either disappointed in herself for not embracing her pregnancy or steadfast in the belief that she had no obligation to be overjoyed about it. In clearer moments, like this one, she teetered between the two. There was an expectation placed on women that they had to be ecstatic about breeding, which she loathed. She was also aware that she was in a good situation. She had a steady job, a partner she adored, and a comfortable home to raise her child in. Too few were that lucky.

"I've always been open with you about kids. Being pregnant is rough. There's always some pain or sickness I'm contending with. It makes my day-to-day harder. Effects my work" Erica takes a long slip of blueberry juice. It doesn't hold the fortifying power of red wine, but it would have to do. " _Honestly_? I don't enjoy it. I can appreciate that some women do, but I don't."

In fouler moods, John would have leaped off his stool and stormed off. Not now, to her relief. He registers her words carefully. No element of judgment crosses his features. A neutral ear.

"That doesn't mean I'll love this kid any less" she declares, "I'm not going to think about what a mistake they are every time I look at them". John chortles quietly. "They'll be mine, and yours, and I'll adore them with everything I have."

He reaches a hand over to her knee, calloused fingers drawing soothing patterns against her jeans. He shakes his head to himself. "I understand" he instills, "I mean that. I don't want to make you feel bad about it anymore."

Erica rests her hand over his. He _did_ mean it, and it meant the world.

Conversation in the studio hushes momentarily. One issue had been dealt with. There was another.

"Do you want to talk about Freddie?" she ventures tentatively. She reinforces her hold on his hand, squeezing it supportingly.

John gives a shaky breath. " _I don't know_."

"I'm not sure what to say" He stops himself, voice thick with grief. "He tells us to carry on as normal. Pretend there's nothing wrong. But every time I look at him I realize he's going to _die_ someday."

Tears rise in the corners of Erica's eyes all too readily.

Freddie looked ill. Gradually thinner every time they met. Already defined cheekbones stuck out precariously. His skin paled. Every now and then, if he'd stood up too fast or moved too suddenly, he'd wheeze. Jim's face would fall. Sometimes there'd be a sniffle, quickly dismissed by his husband. He didn't want sympathy, empathy, whatever it was.

"It's not fair" John assesses weakly. He leans into his lover's touch, his pain eased by the relaxing strokes she ran through his curls. He'd never felt so exposed, weeping before her as he did. Instinctively he shuts off. "I'm not sure what else to say."

"That's okay, Habibi" Erica coos, "Find me when you do."

Together they're transported to the days of old. Back to the time when he'd struggled to salvage his marriage. She'd listened through the night, wrapping a blanket around him when his tears exhausted him. Going to her had been an easy decision. Even before they truly knew one another she'd offered herself as a shoulder to cry on.

How far they'd come.

John sniffs loudly. "Well that was a _talk_."

"We're being _responsible adults_ " Erica recognizes.

"Feels good."

Their grievances settled, Erica's hand roams back to the neck of the bass guitar.

"Play it again?" she asks.

John's brow quirks smugly. "You really like it, don't you?"

Of its own volition, Erica's grasp drifts downward, ending up on his thigh. "Play it again and I'll let you know how much I like it."

He doesn't need further direction. He resumes his riff with renewed vigor, blissfully conscious of the hungry eyes that studied him. There was no greater issue lingering overhead now, nothing in the way. In between notes, he catches himself looking to the crotch of her unbuttoned jeans, at the white panties he could just about glimpse. The curve in them, now her belly had grown. His work.

He plays better than ever.

* * *

Erica did indeed love his latest creation. She'd communicated the feeling well. _Extremely_ well.

Shallow breaths caught in his throat, John thinks he'd have to get a more concrete version of the song together before long. The music still resonating in her veins, his lover rises onto the sofa space at his side. Her knees ached ever so slightly. Not that she'd been aware of the discomfort in her joints while she was working her particular brand of magic.

John's reaction neutered any soreness she felt while crouching before him. He'd thrown his head back, fingers buried in her hair, gasping for air. Making _him_ feel good made _her_ feel good. She'd missed it.

In the haze of desire, she hadn't realized how similar the basement studio's set up was to that the band used in Munich. Near identical, in fact. The couch Mack had kept behind his mixing desk was not a detail overlooked. The original had been through a lot.

It was where Erica and John had first slept together. Consummated months worth of pining.

She was grateful to have another sofa to fall back on. John wasn't quite sated yet.

Eagerly he fused their lips together, digits diving between the opened fly of her jeans like a heat-seeking missile. Erica hums against the thumb he places on her sweet spot.

With skilful circles John reduces her to thrilled shivers. Her muscles rippling with pleasure, she tears her blouse open. Rather clumsily she pulls her fiancé’s shirt over his head. The dedicated attack he begins against her chest distracts her.

” _Fuck_ ” she sings, lids drooping as he wrenched a breast from her bra. The sensation of his teeth, his _tongue-_ She revelled in it. Felt herself nearing the edge already.

It wasn’t enough.

But John drew it out. Worshipped every inch of skin revealed to him as she shed her clothes.

Her bump fascinated him. He spent a great deal of time showering it with kisses. Made Erica feel _beautiful_. She’d worried about the way pregnancy changed her body, but he loved it. Got off on it.

“ _Habibi_?” she pleads.

John nimbly slips from his pants. Gently he lowers her onto the couch padding. She wraps her legs around his middle, secure, _ready_.

“ _Erica_.”

Cheek to cheek, they moan. It was like Munich. Fuck that. _Better_ than Munich.

”Gently” Erica cautions, the pressure between her thighs fierce and divine all at once. Like she was feeling him for the first time.

She urges him on. John grunts at the movement. Good _God_ , she was intoxicating.

Her hips buck against his, driving him deeper. He finds his rhythm, tender but sure. Presses warm lips to her neck, her brown skin like silk against his mouth. The need in him made him want to push faster, _harder_. Make her writhe under him. He knew he could if wanted to.

He holds off. Takes his time. Listens to her whimpers blend with his own. Let’s a string of curses slip out when she digs her nails into his back.

Does his baby good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song John is working on is My Baby Does Me if it wasn’t obvious!


	24. Radio Gaga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erica brings John to work. Roger pines for Ed.

Slowly but surely, London began to see the sun again. The winter months faded, and spring rolled on. The days were brighter, better. Whether it was just the calm before another storm or real, _genuine_ contentment, Erica couldn't tell. It didn't matter. After a rocky beginning to 1987, she finally felt her life starting to fall into place.

She only just notices John roll over to her, quite distracted by the birdsong drifting through the open window. It takes him several minutes to come to. His lips immediately curl upward when he wakes. He yawns against her neck, blinking back the fog of a good night's sleep. He'd been sleeping better lately. They both had.

Their big talk the previous month had done the trick.

Reluctantly Erica glances at the clock resting on her nightstand. John feels her begin to shift, so wraps his arms right around her tightly. He attempts to pin her down under him for good measure, but her bump gets in the way.

The baby had grown with a vengeance. Erica had finally conceded defeated and begun to wear outfits that hugged her shape. Her last appearance on Top of the Pops had kept the gossip columns busy for a day or two. One hack had suggested the child wasn't John's at all. They'd laughed it off. Ed had revealed during one of his on-air phone-ins that it was in fact his.

" _No_ " John mumbles drowsily, clutching her dearly, "It's a Sunday. You're staying here."

Erica doesn't put up much of a fight. She felt too peaceful to leave him. "I've got to do the radio show today," she says, more a reminder for herself than him.

"Don't care" he protests. He nuzzles her collarbone, sporting his best pout. She lets him cuddle against her, aging features crunching up sweetly. He's quietly snoring before too long. The clock ticks on. She sets her sights on the bathroom door, keen for a shower before the day began.

Erica just manages to quietly peel the bedsheets off her when she spots her fiance peer at her from the corner of her eye. _The cheeky bastard_. The ruse rumbled, John pulls her back again, peppering her jaw with kisses. He runs his hand along the smooth of her back, then her rounding belly. "Not letting you go just yet" he insists, toying with the hem of her t-shirt.

She knew she could quite easily overpower him. Maybe invite him into the shower with her, kill two birds with one stone. She doesn't bother. Maybe she'd turn up late today?

"Come to work with me" she suggests, his touch making her feel beautiful beneath the morning glow.

John pays little attention, too interested in her growing chest. Nimbly he dips his head underneath her top, leaving silly, wet kisses wherever he went. "I mean it" Erica giggles, "I haven't got a guest co-host for today."

She'd had all week to plan for it, but usually ended up being distracted by this newly reinvigorated lover of hers.

They'd not worked together since Munich. It would be fun. Limit the pain of Ed's absence.

"I'll make it worth your while" she adds, arching a brow.

John pushes his head through the neck of her t-shirt, a proud, gap-toothed grin slapped across his face.

"Count me in."

* * *

Radio studios did not rank highly on John's list of favorite places.

Interviews were an essential part of his job, but not one he'd ever enjoyed. He hated talking about himself, preferring to leave that to his more self-assured bandmates. He always worried he'd trip over his words in some way, accidentally say something he shouldn't, give off the wrong impression.

Erica had guided him through the BBC offices, got him set up in front of the microphone. She offered him comforting words when she noticed how pale he'd grown. She was perfectly at home on air. The room was hers to command the second the recording light turns red. John had never actually seen her go about her day-to-day roles. He'd been missing out, he realized. The way she poised before the mic, speaking so eloquently, so naturally, captured his every sense.

"With Ed still away, I thought I'd pull some guy from off the street to fill his seat" Erica speaks.

John blushes when he realizes she's looking at him, waiting patiently for him to speak. "I suppose I did play a homeless man in one of our videos," he remarks.

She cackles hoarsely, dark eyes sparkling. "The last time I interviewed you on the air in any way was _Live Aid_. Feels like only yesterday."

"The grey in my hair would suggest otherwise."

Live Aid was just under two years ago. Where the _fuck_ had the time gone? Erica felt as though she'd managed to fit a good decade's worth of experiences into those two years. She and Ed had been so concerned that the band wouldn't like them. Now their group was almost inseparable. Her younger self would never have imagined she'd now be sitting comfortably in a good job, pregnant _and_ engaged.

"Last year was pretty remarkable for the group" she poses, at ease with her interviewee, "How's 1987 been treating you?"

The couple shares a knowing look. _Turbulently_ , was the answer.

"It's been nice to relax a bit. I didn't want to do much after the tour ended" John answers, swirling slightly in his seat, "I've spent most of my time with my family. And-" He glances into his lap, coughing up a laugh. "Well, with _you_."

"You poor thing."

Ed sweet talks his way through the switchboard and soon finds himself steering the interview from beyond.

His last few updates from rehab had been bleak. He'd revealed that he'd been prescribed medication to cope with his cravings. Therapy became increasingly intense. Quite bravely he'd confessed to walking out on his counselor several times, vowing to escape the facility the first chance he got. He never did. Always the vision of Craig, ill and fading fast, would appear to him, urging him to stay.

"It's a nightmare at times. I feel so _exposed_ constantly" Ed details, "They never force me to say anything. They're good like that. Wait until I'm comfortable."

"The therapist doesn't have one of those couches like in the movies. Those chaise longue type things" he commiserates, "I did get the 'tell me about your childhood' talk, though. That was fun."

John appeals to his fiance with a puzzled expression, his default whenever Ed opened his mouth. Erica finds herself torn between heartache and amusement. Her friend was enduring veritable hell and still managed to make light of it. She adored him.

"And did you have much to say about your childhood?" She knew damn well he did. She'd met his mother one too many times.

"A gay kid from the North of England?" Ed scoffs sarcastically, "No baggage here, love."

John snorts at the comment. Ed verbally leaps onto him as though actually in the room. "Oh, John, sweetheart, I've missed your face."

"I hope Erica's taking advantage of it."

Sensing the producer's eyes on her, Erica changes tact. "I think it's time for a record-"

"You know. Sitting on-"

"This is U2, and _With or Without You_."

* * *

Roger folds his arms crossly. He still wasn't convinced his bandmate was paying attention to him. Brian was seeing to a DIY crisis of Anita's. A bookcase had collapsed, and, like the valiant lover he was, he'd swept in to help.

Alas, the mission had coincided with a promise he'd made to the drummer to hang out.

"I'm in deep shit here, Bri" he contested.

"Run through it again?" the guitarist requests, having only half-listened the first time his friend barked his problems out.

Ed was a consistent play on Roger's mind. Since learning the extent of his problem, he'd found himself wrapped up in guilt. He'd known there was something deeply amiss with his former boyfriend's behavior. Rather than insist on helping him, he'd kicked him out. Now the younger man was taking a stab at recovery at some hidden location in Surrey, and he was with a new partner.

"Debbie's not best pleased with me at the moment."

Brian sets a spanner aside, fixing his bandmate with a disapproving gaze. "Did you cheat on her?"

Roger rolls his eyes. " _No_ " he exclaims, "Get down off your high horse, won't you? You're moving in with a woman you fell in love with while still married-"

"Just get on with it?"

Roger taps his foot on the spot, searching for the appropriate phrasing. He bites his lip. "Is it cheating if it's just in your head?"

In vain Brian tries to refocus his attention on the fallen bookcase. It had been a book of his that had brought it down, he suspected. One of the first things he'd been intent on moving to the home they now owned together was a hefty tome Erica had gifted him, a rare first edition of one of Einstein's works. Anita had complained it looked out of place amongst her Mills & Boon novels, but he'd insisted on putting it there.

More fool him.

"We were going at it" Roger explains plainly.

"Romantic stuff, Rog."

"I said _Ed's_ name."

Brian grimaces. It was a problem that usually surfaced in fiction, calling out the wrong name during sex. Truthfully, with all that had been going on with the mercurial journalist, and Freddie too, he'd quite forgotten how in love the drummer had been with the man.

"It didn't occur to you that you were shagging a girl and not a boy?"

"Well, I had her on all fours, which was how Ed usually liked it-"

The guitarist dips his head defeatedly. "This is charming stuff, mate."

It wasn't a name Roger had been able to disguise as something else. And he'd yelled it far too loud for it to go unnoticed. Debbie didn't question who Ed was. An uncomfortable conversation had ensued. Not because he'd been thinking of a man, but because it was someone other than her. Her irritation was justifiable. She'd stormed from his apartment and into the night. She hadn't called since.

"Clearly you still have feelings for Ed" Brian notes.

"He doesn't want anything to do with me in that way". The drummer had often played over their last interaction, constantly asking himself how he could have said goodbye in a better way. It was the other man's lips that really haunted him. A kiss that had been all too fleeting, too painful, too _final_.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do?" he grunts frustratedly, "I really like Debbie. Honestly, I do. But I can't shake Ed."

Brian returns to his feet and perches opposite his brother. This wasn't the first occasion where he'd come to him with matters of the heart. He could quote the infamous ice cream speech almost word for word.

"Do you think you'll ever be able to shake Ed?" he challenges, "Because if not, it's really not fair on Debbie."

"I'm not sure" Roger contemplates, biting at his nails anxiously, "I feel like I should leap into what I've got with her, but I still feel so bad."

He withdraws a cigarette from its carton. It's quickly slapped away by the other man. The _no smoking_ rule remained. "Fucking _Draconian_ " he mutters.

"So, what are you going to do?"

Call Ed? Try again to win his affections? Or push the gorgeous ginger from his thoughts and crack on with his new girlfriend? He felt bad for even troubling himself with the problem. Quite rightly Ed had sworn off romantic attachments for the time being. He had so much to tackle on his own. Surely it was best for him to not get in the way? To not complicate his feelings?

"I'll have a proper talk with Deb" he decides, "Hopefully we can work through it. If not, I'll let her go."

Brian smiles in surprise.

"Roger Taylor, I do believe you're becoming an adult."

* * *

Erica sinks against her fiance on the backseat of the taxi they shared. The show had drawn a great deal more out of her than she'd expected. Work tired her easily lately. Every spare hunk of energy she had went to the baby.

"Told you it would be fun" she inhales.

Bolstered by her presence, he'd gradually eased into the show. He'd asked Ed some constructive questions during his segment. Cracked a fair few jokes too. Erica had never seen her producer double over with laughter before. John didn't even realize he was doing it. He was often accused of being quiet and subdued, but he could make a person shrivel into nothing, either out of hilarity of embarrassment, if the mood took him.

"We work well together" the bassist nods. He cups her bump, his most treasured aspect of her lately. "Make the best things."

Erica kisses him fondly, not caring that the cab driver could see. Pressed nose-to-nose as they were, she noticed a sudden thought grow in her lover's gentle eyes.

"Let's get married" John declares.

She wiggles the diamond ring on her wedding finger proudly. "We are, Habibi."

He kisses her again, passionately this time. "No, I mean-" His eyes widen. " _Let's get married_."

A gasp escapes her. With all that had imploded around them, she'd barely thrown a thought to her wedding. There had never been any definitive timeline for it. Nothing was planned. Dresses, catering, venue. None of it.

"When?"

" _Tomorrow_."

"You're barking."

"Next week then."

It reminded her of when he'd tried to convince her to run away with Bali to him. He'd stood before her like a total madman, wholeheartedly standing by his plan despite the absence of details. He'd talked her round eventually. Great good had come from that trip in the end.

"We can't send invites out by next week" she claims, "And who's going to officiate?"

"We can invite a handful of people over the phone. Just our closest friends and family" John counters, practically shooting off his seat in anticipation, "Ronnie's religious. She knows plenty of people who are ordained."

It made Erica skeptical, the plan being sprung on her.

 _Fuck_ , it sounded fun though. Her vision of the wedding never had been overly grand. That beautiful back garden of theirs had always been her preferred location. And they didn't need many people there, did they? Just the band, John's kids, Ed, one or two of their closest friends. They could serve up something simple for the reception. Takeaway from the local Chinese joint for all she cared.

"Alright" she hears herself say, "Let's go for it."

John's features light up several shades, his pupils damn near exploding. He sweeps her into his lap, cradling her face. He'd been so grumpy in recent months, so volatile. The change in him was miraculous.

In the reflection of the rearview mirror, the taxi raises his eyebrows, intrigued as to where the display was headed.

"Mrs. Deacon" John murmurs huskily.

"Mr. Salib" Erica chimes.

They pause in their caresses.

"Deacon-Salib."

"Salib-Deacon."

They shrug, greedy hands resuming their dance on the backseat. They'd figure out the name change later. There was already so much to work out.

With any luck, before the month was done, they'd be _husband and wife_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suit up! We've got a wedding to attend!
> 
> I hope you guys are happy with where the story has headed so far :) I don't have much left for 1987. I'm planning to head straight to the Miracle era after that.


	25. A Nice Day to Start Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Erica get married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Pet Shop Boys song mentioned is 'What Have I Done to Deserve This?' :)  
> Title taken from Billy Idol's 'White Wedding'  
> 

As far as Ed knew, there had been no one else able to collect him from rehab.

The gang had each been assigned essential wedding duties. Brian and Anita were in charge of catering. Freddie and Jim had volunteered themselves to get the back yard ceremony ready. Roger had performed the odd jobs Erica and John were unable to do, like collecting her dress and driving the officiant to their home. When it was confirmed that Ed was being allowed a day pass from his counselor, he'd leaped on the chance to pick him up.

He couldn't tell whether the younger bloke was happy to see him when he climbed into the passenger seat. Ed had put on a cheerful smile, snuck in a sassy quip of some kind about the event, but said little.

His clothes didn't cling to him quite as they had. There was renewed color in his cheeks. Even the auburn curls by now hanging past his ears seemed a little brighter. Ed was halfway out of the woods. Recovery was going well. Still, he grew depressed some nights. He missed his friends, his work, his _freedom_. His fellow addicts weren't quite the stimulating company he'd hoped for. Most were lovely, well-meaning, clearly in need of an empathetic ear, but they weren't as receptive to his particular brand of humor as his other friends were.

"Do you think we could pull into a gas station on the way?" Ed asks, watching the Surrey fields fly past his window, "I'd like to get changed before I arrive. Float up to Erica's door like the handsome gentleman I am."

"You're handsome as you are" Roger hears himself answer.

Ed's brows shoot up his forehead, expression blank. The drummer is ready to steer the car off the nearest cliff when he hears a long, much-missed laugh. His eyelids droop involuntarily. He'd almost forgotten how wonderful a sound it was.

The other man gestures to the simple blue jeans and slightly creased top he wore. " _Alcoholic chic_ " he jokes.

"There isn't going to be an open bar at this party, apparently," Roger remarks, "Erica's insisted on water and fruit juices."

"Turn this car around right now" Ed barks, feigning injury.

They chuckle together like old friends. Doubtless, some would find the conversation insensitive, but they didn't care. It felt good to blow off some steam. To act like good mates again.

"Is Debbie coming?"

The query arises out of nowhere. Ed doesn't look at him as he says it. Just keeps gazing out of the window, where Roger couldn't see the look in his eye. He wanted to assume it was a harmless inquiry. A courtesy.

But he overthinks it. Assumes it has another meaning to it.

"No" he lies. He slams his hand on the steering wheel involuntarily, quickly claiming there was a fly on the leather that demanded to be swatted.

Ed doesn't ask why. His face turned away, he conceals a grin. Everyone else was bringing their partners. He assumed Erica and John had met Debbie by now, so it wasn't as though they'd be inviting a stranger to their wedding. Maybe Roger had dumped her? The drummer had confessed that he still loved him last time they spoke. It was hardly a stable basis for a new relationship.

The car tears along the road, and slowly, easily, they start to open up again.

A gas station appears on the hazy horizon.

The man on the counter bursts into a frenzied speech about how much he adored The Sunday Show. Ed subsequently tries to flirt his way into access to the bathroom key. He ends up having to buy a snack before he can claim it. He's sure to throw in a candy bar for Roger while he's there. _Something sweet for the road_ , he smiled to himself.

He tosses the treat to his chauffeur with a wink and retreats into the bathroom, his suit cast over his arm.

Roger nibbles at the chocolate, eyes fixed on the heavy steel door separating the men's room from the rest of the lot. The radio pumps out the latest Pet Shop Boys hit. A loud, punchy drumbeat reverberates about the car's frame. Made his seat shake. Or was that just because of the knee he anxiously bounced up and down?

Ed took his time. Roger didn't mind. The time allowed his fantasies to flower. Had the other man already wriggled into his suit, and was just performing last-minute vanity checks in front of the mirror? Perhaps he hadn't even got his old clothes off yet. What would he see if he were to crank the door open just a little?

He hadn't forgotten what Ed looked like naked. The sculptings of his body were burned irreversibly on his brain.

Casting the candy wrapper onto the passenger seat, he climbs out. Slowly he treads towards the bathroom door. There's a silent scurry as he searches for the right words to call out. He loathed the idea of appearing creepy. He just wanted to check Ed was alright, he reminds himself. See if he needed any help.

"Everything okay in there?"

From within Roger hears the lowering of a zipper. Something soft hits the floor. The hangers that carried the man's wedding outfit knocks ever so slightly against the wall. The drummer finds himself pressed against the metal, trying in vain to put the scene together.

He imagines Ed bending over slightly to retrieve his suit pants, powder blue. His t-shirt is cast over the bathroom sink. Humming sedately to himself he reaches for his white, crisp shirt. Starched well by the staff back at the rehab facility. Fits him tightly, _cleanly_. Roger sees himself trace each button. Should he help the man fasten the shirt or just rip it off?

He's busy wrestling with the idea when the door creaks open. Wrenched from the fanciful inventions of his mind, Roger stumbles into the washroom. Ed catches him just before he topples onto the cracked tiles below. One deep breath later, he realizes his former love does indeed have his shirt off.

He'd managed to get his trousers on. They hug his hips, the fabric clutching his taut behind. Roger tries to tear his focus away, but then Ed bends over. Just as he'd pictured it. His lip bitten, he watches the other man swipe a thin trail of black eyeliner over his lids.

Ed cutely bats his lashes at his reflection, lips puckering. "Gorgeous," he tells himself.

He _was_. Somehow effeminate _and_ macho. Unforgivably attractive. Sin on legs.

Ed catches the drummer staring at him. Through the mirror's reflection, he shoots him a playful smile. "You've got chocolate on your face" he points out. Roger stands numb as the younger man steps towards him, handkerchief in hand. "You're only thirty-seven. Not like you should know how to wipe your own face or anything."

Roger manages two swipes at his top lip before he seizes the redhead by the waist. He pushes him roughly against the dirty mirror, fingers tracing his sharp jaw. He dives to the other man's lips with force. He feels Ed sink against him, his own hand involuntarily running through his blonde locks. He feels a tug at his scalp. The cautionary kind. _Fuck_. He'd overstepped the mark, hadn't he?

The attack pauses. Cheeks unusually red, he awkwardly avoids the stare trained on him. Roger waits for Ed to push him away, to curse him for the gesture. He'd made it clear he had no interest in romance given his current situation. It was a stance he should have respected. He should have stayed in the car, where he was meant to be.

"How long until the wedding?" Ed gasps, feelings unreadable.

"A couple of hours" the drummer murmurs, ashamed.

He's ready to step back, to apologize hastily, and dash out of the room.

Ed pulls him close again. He twiddles with the drummer's belt buckle, holding him by his belt loops, intense heat racing through every vein. " _Good_ " he breathes, before melding their mouths together once again.

* * *

Erica awakens from her trance.

For several minutes she'd rested her head against John's chest. They'd swayed together, fingers laced together. The material of his suit was soft on her cheek. He'd abandoned his bow tie, a delightful floral number, several songs ago. Absentmindedly she'd taken his hand and lowered it over her hips, inviting him to caress the smooth fabric of her dress.

It was a simple number. Something she'd spotted while on a spontaneous shopping spree with Freddie and Jim. White cotton flowed freely to her ankles, freeing cloth allowing ample room for the curve of her belly. With greater preparation, _and no baby bump_ , she might have opted for something more daring. A plunging neckline. Lace that clung to her curves, showed off all she had for the man awaiting her at the end of the aisle.

In the end, she'd been happy with what she had. Ecstatic even.

The French doors leading out to the back yard had opened. The sweet notes of Brian's acoustic guitar had floated over to her. In step with every strum, she'd graced the aisle, Ed on her arm. Anita had set out a handful of wooden chairs for the attendees, sprinkling fresh petals along the grass. The path ended beneath the old tree that hung over the pond.

Though she was grateful for each of them, Erica had barely noticed the guests watching her. She saw only John. He'd turned to face her before she'd reached him. She'd never forget it. The way his pale eyes had sparkled. That glimmer he'd entranced her with when they first met.

John made a handsome groom. A black tuxedo cuddled his lean figure, the pants black, the blazer a dazzling white. He'd cut his hair again. His curls clung tightly to his head, the grey in them vivid. The sight made Erica glad there was a photographer present. The image of him, tall and beautiful, would be immortalized as it should be.

Before a select crowd, their nearest and dearest, they'd been bound for life.

They'd danced across the lawn as Freddie crooned for them. _One Year of Love_. _Their_ song, made even more precious by the promise of a _lifetime_ of love. Brian had followed it up with Fleetwood's _Landslide_ , Erica's favorite.

The newlyweds had been perfectly serene up until John's children had coaxed the impromptu band into a song change.

They now enjoyed an acoustic version of the Cantina Band's tune from _Star Wars_.

"Makes an interesting first dance" John notes, features crinkling with delight.

"I hear its the hottest wedding song on Tatooine."

Erica twirls him gracefully, climbing up onto her toes to swing her arm over his head. They fall back into a loving embrace, eyes for no one but each other. "Seems you're stuck with me, Habibi," she cracks.

Tenderly he kisses her, chin tilted gently up to his. "I wouldn't have it any other way". He blushes beneath her gaze, bewitched. "You think I'm being soft."

"Just a little" his wife muses, capturing his every movement under dark lashes, "I like it though."

The summer glow catches the gold band on her finger. "We're _married_ " she hollers, "And the first interaction we had, you took the piss out of me."

Ed had thrust the responsibility of a pre-Live Aid interview on her. In a panic, she'd grappled with a failing microphone. John had materialized out of the blue, a darling in his mushroom do, and ridiculed her for not inserting the battery pack.

“ _I got my degree in electrical engineering_."

” _Do you need to do three years at uni to figure out how to put a battery in a mic_?” she'd bitten back.

" _I suppose not, but it makes me feel better if I pretend otherwise_."

Then there'd been evenings at Freddie's, engrossed in Scrabble competitions. And Munich. Then the midnight escape to Bali.

"Are you scared at all?” John ponders shyly, “About the _future_ , I mean.”

“I think I might be when I wake up” Erica confesses.

From the corner of her eye she watches her new step-children circle Brian, chanting for him to repeat the Cantina song.

Freddie and Jim waltz to their own melody, a married couple every bit as enamored as the newlyweds.

”Why, are you asleep right now?” John softly mutters, lips brushing her hair.

”I think so” Erica sighs, drawing her husband into an amorous kiss, “And if it means I can keep dancing with you, I'm happy to stay that way.”

* * *

Ed pours himself a hearty cup of punch. The throws the ladle down hard, sending spots of the drink all over the gingham. Anita halts in her approach, the animosity radiating off almost palpable. "Everything okay, sweetheart?" she quizzes warily.

The man stares into the bottom of his glass. It was fruity, well-balanced, perfectly refreshing. Not strong enough though. He didn't quite feel brave enough to try snooping through John and Erica's cupboards for some booze. His cigarette carton was empty. The only person he was certain had any smokes on him was Roger, and that was the last person he wanted to speak to.

In a blooming corner of the garden the drummer chats to his bandmates, a stunning blonde on his arm. Debbie was indeed in attendance. She'd floated down the garden path towards the car the moment it stopped at the sidewalk. She'd greeted Ed a little cooly. He didn't understand why. She surely had no idea why she should despise him? She hadn't been there in that gas station bathroom.

Ed was certain Roger wouldn't speak a word of their tryst. Neither had acknowledged it for the rest of the journey. Just kept their sight fixed sternly forward and pretended to listen to the radio.

"Just sad to see my little girl all grown up" he lies, clutching his heart theatrically.

Erica swayed beneath the old blossom with Freddie in her arms, offering herself as an anchor when his giddiness took hold. Ed had always thought his friend was beautiful. He understood that all brides were supposed to be at their most stunning on their wedding days. She hadn't disappointed. Very little had been done to her hair. It remained as it usually did, just grazing her shoulders in loose, black ringlets. She hadn't bothered with her makeup either. Just wore her usual dark shade of red lipstick.

It was her euphoria that made her truly stunning. As if she was _glowing_.

Ed realized he was sad to see her married. Even if he could get married himself, he was so far from that kind of bond.

Nevermore so than today.

"Brian's going to put some Human League on the record player for you" Anita gushes, helping herself to one of the sandwiches she and her boyfriend had brought along. Ed waves to the guitarist, shimmying about comically with one of the Deacon children, and blows him a kiss. "I do love your eyeliner. I wish more men gave make-up a try."

"Cheers."

Involuntarily his focus reverts to Roger. He'd always complimented him when he wore makeup. Told him how _pretty_ he was.

Anita slips away to rejoin her lover, cheeks blushing at the mere sight of him. They were an undeniably cute pair, Brian in his space-themed tie, Anita in a flowing lilac number cut just below her knees. Ed wistfully watches as she feeds him the remainder of her sandwich, wiping off the remnants of mayonnaise on his top lip with a giggle.

Someone else fills her place at the table.

A surprising invitation on Erica's part. Their boss, Mr. Reed. He was close to the pair, he supposed, but had never really considered their relationship as resembling anything like a friendship.

"You're looking well" Reed compliments.

"Thanks, sir" Ed mumbles, staring once more into his drink. He wondered if he could force it to transform into alcohol with his eyes.

"Call me _Tom_."

Ed arches a brow. He'd never even considered the boss having a _first name_. He'd been _sir_ for as long as they'd known him.

"Blue really suits you."

He considers his suit. He felt good in it. It remained well-ironed and crisp, even after Roger had ardently cast so much of it on the floor of the gas station bathroom.

"Looking dapper yourself" he twitters.

Ed realizes he'd never actually _looked_ at Mr. Reed. Not _properly_. He was quite handsome. A good ten years or so his senior, going by the dents etched into his temple, but still very attractive. He was tall, a good six feet by his estimation. Not exactly lean, a considerable weight settled about his bones.

"I do hope life's treating you well at the minute" Tom wishes, pining the other man to the spot over the rim of his glass, "I know it hasn't been easy, these last few months."

"I struggled with the same problem for years. I'm thankful to be clean now."

"What got you out of it?" Ed asks. Need laces his words, a desperation he hadn't expected. He feels baby blue eyes on him. Roger, glowering from afar. Somehow mustering the sheer fucking audacity to wonder why he might be chatting to another man.

"The twelve-step program" Tom reveals, "I did have a fantastic partner at the time, too. He was a tremendous help."

 _He_. The word rings louder in Ed's head than he'd have liked. He wasn't the kind to look at other men and deliberate over their potential lack of heterosexuality. Mr. Reed had never occupied his mind in any way. There had been no reason to consider his preferences.

"Wish I had someone like that" Ed grumbles darkly.

With deep brown eyes and a wobble of his cropped, mousy hair, Tom smiles.

"I'm sure you'll find someone one day."

* * *

There had been a section of the garden cordoned off by Freddie and Jim without reason. Together they'd fastened a white sheet between two overarching trees, blocking the space from view. Routinely during the reception, one of them had marched over to ensure no one was snooping.

"One last gift to you, darlings" Freddie hummed charmingly, guiding his bassist towards the area.

The light faded quickly. Most of the guests had gone home, satisfied grins on their faces. Fred and Jim had appropriated the privacy as an opportunity to shower the newlyweds with gifts. Several finely-crafted baby toys and one set of his and hers Tiffany watches later, the spoiled pair were able to let into the secret.

Jim tears the sheet away to reveal a makeshift den. Panels of canvas were bound tightly together to form a cozy tent. Glass jars filled with tealights formed a clear path to the entrance. Through the entrance, Erica could just about make out something painted within.

"Your honeymoon" Jim beams.

They had no real idea of what awaited them in the tent. It didn't matter. They were grateful, abundantly so. So much darkness had plagued the husbands, but they remained generous. Open-hearted.

"Thanks, Fred" John praises, kissing his bandmate fondly on the cheek.

The four share slightly drowsy embraces. Recent events had left them all emotionally exhausted.

Pregnancy hormones didn't help, Erica thinks.

"Somewhere to lay your virgin bride."

Brightly she watches Fred grace her bump with a kiss, then nudges her new husband.

"Be gentle, won't you?"

The Mercurys leave. Hands bound together, the couple slips into the den. A single lamp lit up the interior.

On the inside of the canvas, a beach was painted. Swirled in the finest oils was a crystal clear sea, and sand so pale and silky they both found themselves reaching out to touch it. In the backdrop, amidst swaying palm trees, a solitary cottage had been added.

Bali. The haven they hadn't been able to escape to just yet.

In one corner of the tent, the initials _F.M_ and _J.H_ had been scribbled.

Erica felt quite embarrassed by how weepy the gesture made her until she spotted John, bottom lip quivering. "I don't deserve them" he exhaled.

Together they register every detail of the tent. Freddie had hidden little clues in his artwork. An acoustic guitar propped against the foundations of the beach hut for John. A BBC microphone lay buried in the sand for Erica.

They discover a velvet bag nestled amongst the blankets lying within. John pulls out a small bottle of non-alcoholic champagne, two plastic cups, and an unopened pack of polaroid film.

The camera gifted to them by Brian had stayed on hand throughout the ceremony, no memory left undocumented.

"Did you mention our collection?” Erica wonders.

She thinks to the stash of Polaroid’s buried in a sock drawer upstairs, theirs to return to when they were turned on. A full album has blossomed since their lovemaking in Bali.

”More like Fred decided to have a nose around and found the photos”. John chuckles awkwardly, cheeks glowing. He registers his wife’s surprise. “He said you’re beautiful, and that I have a nice bum.”

”It is lovely” Erica agrees, aiming a sharp slap at his behind.

The couple enjoys a glass of virgin champagne each. Halfway through hers, John points the camera at her. She takes one of him. They end up with a shared photograph, seen sharing an affectionate kiss.

“As much as I thrive on putting out” Erica reasons, “I’m too tired for a shag right now.”

John lifts his head from the pile of pillows he’d sunk into. “I’m so glad you said that. This whole day has worn me out” He wiggles his brow suggestively. “Wouldn’t be my finest performance.”

He catches sight of her smirking at him. “You whistle _Misfire_ at me again and I’ll call my lawyer.”

Erica stifles a giggle into the open collar of his shirt.

”We _could_ mess around a little” she suggests. The thin strap of her dress falls as if on command. “Might even let you see my _boobs_.”

John grips her hip through the cotton. “Always wondered what they look like.”

Climbing on top of one another wasn’t exactly comfortable any more. Erica’s belly got in the way. Lying on their sides was good enough. They kiss again and again. Like teenagers, their hands travelling to every inch of skin, every sensitive spot that might elicit an erotic sigh.

Content with the other’s taste on their lips, their scent caught under their fingernails, they drift into a blissful sleep, the Bali sunshine smiling over them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this acoustic version of the Cantina Band track on YT. Show it some love!  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MeEVaUUxEr8


	26. Rain Must Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 1989!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to The Miracle era (my favorite)
> 
> Song at the start is, of course, Khashoggi's Ship!

_Who said that my party was all over?_

_I'm in pretty good shape_

Refreshed and bursting with ideas, the band found themselves at Metropolis Studios in London. Spur of the moment, a new album was underway. They'd enjoyed only a handful of jamming sessions together after the '86 tour ended. They still saw one another socially, though less and less as 1988 approached. As it happened, it was rather a shock for all when Freddie summoned them late in the year.

Any creative eccentricities of his had been released in his collaboration with Montserrat Caballé. With her, he'd managed a perfectly grandiose operatic number. The duo had provided a triumphant series finale to Erica and Ed's revived _Sunday Show_.

Rumors started to circulate in the press about his alleged ill health. It was increasingly difficult to deny for those around him. He grew thinner, _weaker_. There even came days when he'd be forced to call into the studio sick, unable to make it out of bed. The gang still denied everything. Defended him tooth and nail.

Erica had at one point got into trouble with her bosses for telling a tabloid reporter to _fuck off_ when he asked about Fred's condition.

Amazingly, he sang better than ever.

_The last years of my life were like a supernova_

_Perpetual craze_

The light of the studio different from that of the parking lot, Ed removes his sunglasses. Into his short hair, he pushes the pair, immediately breaking out into a grin at the sight awaiting him.

The lot of them were visibly renewed. Like they were recording for the first time. There was a more collaborative feel now, too. As though they weren't silently pitting themselves against one another, but were actually playing as a unit.

Dave Richards bopped his head along to the beat at his mixing desk, automatically adjusting the faders. 

_Everybody drank my wine_

_You get my drift_

_And then we took a holiday_

_On Khashoggi's ship_

Ed leans towards the glass partition, impressed. It was a damn good track, whatever it was.

" _Haircut_ " Dave remarks, nodding respectfully his way.

"Wasn't feeling the mullet anymore" he answers. He runs his fingers through his shorn locks.

Fashion changed at its usual intense speed. _Flock of Seagulls_ dos were out. Ed himself had been inspired by the American show _21 Jump Street_. Its protagonist, an up and coming actor by the name of Johnny Depp, sported a boyish, floppy style. He'd shown a picture of the man to his barber and instructed him to copy it.

"How long have they been at it?"

"Five hours so far."

 _About normal_.

Ed kicks back and enjoys the concert for a while. An irritable John withdrawing on coffee had eventually peered into the mixing room and discovered the man. A minor reunion began, everyone swarming him at once.

"Look at you, darling" Freddie beams, enveloping him in a warm cuddle, "You're wonderful."

Ed felt it. It wasn't just a fleeting sensation either. He woke up every morning with good thoughts in his head. Initially, he wondered whether he'd been drugged into a good mood without him knowing. Then, as the hours passed by, he'd become aware of the total absence of negative voices in his head. They'd let him go. Let him be free.

His first stint at recovery had gone as hoped. He'd been well enough to pick up his TV show with Erica again in '88. Appeared at all the parties for the awards they'd been nominated for. All the appearances booked for them on other shows.

Even started to consider romance again. Tom, Mr. Reed, openly vied for his affections. They’d shared a kiss or two, but nothing more. It was nice. _Wholesome_.

Then the stress had mounted, the alcohol and drugs that the entertainment business thrived on made their unholy return into his life, and he'd drifted, momentarily but far enough for him to realize he ought to retreat to rehab again.

Today was his _second first day_ of freedom, a totally clean man once more.

"Love the new sound."

"We're enjoying it" Brian nods, "Feels good to back."

Roger arrives last. Still as pretty and charming as ever. He'd begun to put a little weight on, but there wasn't any harm in that. He was _cute_.

"Good to see you, mate" the drummer greets. The hug the men share is stiff. It took considerable grace on Ed's part to embrace him.

Roger had falsely claimed his girlfriend wouldn't be in attendance at the Deacons' wedding, shagged him in a toilet, then fucked back off to the other woman.

It _stung_.

One or two times he'd called the younger man late in the night, drunkenly whining that he should have never chosen Debbie over him. That he was a coward for not following through. Ed usually hung up.

He was happy where he was.

Tom played on his mind more and more. He was contemplating whether or not to ask the man on a proper date now he was sober again.

Quite a way into the conversation, Ed notices John looking dejected. Often his eyes would dart to the studio door, as if expecting another visitor. "Erica not with you?" he asks.

She'd been the first person he called in on upon his release. His co-host had been halfway through preparations for a big television interview, but still found the time for him. They'd agreed to meet up for tea later.

"She's working."

" _As usual_ " John mutters.

The others go about their business, chatting animatedly. Ed watches the bassist simmer in quiet frustration. A kind-faced woman appears at one point, an infant in her arms. The family babysitter.

"She's been good as gold, as always" she coos, wiggling the child's chubby fist fondly.

John's arms form a protective hold around his daughter the second she settles.

The _most_ beautiful girl, eighteen months or so by now. Her skin was deep honey, the thin curls on her head black. Her eyes were her father's, grey-green, and brilliant. She possessed the sweetest disposition. Always smiling and giggling, rarely crying. She was small for her age, but a quick learner. Her parents had been most surprised when she started walking at ten months.

 _Georgia_ , though everyone called her _George_. Erica had interviewed George Harrison the day she gave birth.

As distracting as the gorgeous little girl was, something about her father's demeanor threw Ed off.

"So rather than do her own work" he surmises, "Erica ought to be here, watching you do yours?"

John jerks his head. " _Touché_."

Freddie sweeps in, an ever calming force.

"Oh, darling, we're so excited about this album" he whistles. He prances over to Jim, stopping along the way to kiss the tip of baby George's nose. "It's like I've got a fire under my arse."

"Do you think you'll tour again?"

The band shares knowing looks. _No_ , was the unspoken answer. Freddie had complained during the _Magic_ tour's run that he didn't feel as sprightly as he could be. They now knew the reason why. The prognosis was poor. Another tour wasn't in him.

Ed wasn't sure it was in any of them.

John threw himself into looking after his children, and his new wife. Music was still fun, time in the studio a wonderful release, but it was clear he'd rather be at home.

Ed could appreciate his point of view, given how long he'd been doing the job. Erica had confided in her friend that while she was sympathetic, she couldn't completely understand. There was so much she hadn't yet achieved. The duo had adopted a common saying of Anita's when discussing their burgeoning careers.

They wanted it all, and they wanted it now.

"Got that new mix of _Rain Must Fall_ for you, Bri" says Dave, handing the guitarist a master copy of the song.

Roger straightens up. " _New_ mix?" he splutters, "I thought we finished that track _two days ago_."

John mischievously pokes his nose in. "He stripped most of the drums off."

Irritably, Brian rounds on his bandmate. "Don't you say _he_ like it had nothing to do with you, Deaky" he curses, "Because I seem to recall you happily snipping away at the drum tape."

John tries to coax his infant daughter into flipping the man off.

Propped against the mixing desk, Roger rubs his drum sticks together, a Samurai sharpening his sword. He wasn't sure who his first victim would be.

Jim slings an arm around Ed's shoulders, a weary grin buried beneath his mustache.

"Welcome back, mate."

* * *

Erica shifts on the red sectional as a montage of hers and Ed's work plays on the monitor. She understood what the band meant about looking back on old material. She was still proud of it, but it wasn't overly funny to her anymore. The pair's writing improved every time they sat down.

A clip of her at Live Aid appears. She hadn't changed massively. Her face was a little rounder back then, maybe. She'd kept her hair longer. She was visibly nervous, though. That made her smile. She'd grown a lot over the years. They both had.

The montage ends with a bit from their TV show when they'd recreated the final dance from _Dirty Dancing_. Erica had worn Patrick Swayze's outfit. Ed had gone for the pink dress.

"How do you feel looking back at all that?" poses the interviewer, a portly man in his sixties, a regular on daytime BBC viewing.

"Embarrassed about some of my old outfits" Erica answers, "But proud mostly."

"For good reason. It really has been the most remarkable trajectory for you both" the man assesses, "We'd never heard of _Ed Tetley_ and _Erica Salib_ four years ago. Now you've got a massively popular radio show, and a TV show that's making its way to America."

Erica nods modestly. She wasn't the type to shirk off hers and Ed's achievements, but talking about herself wasn't something she enjoyed. 

Ed's initial recovery had allowed them to return to TV. They'd thrived there. No Motley Crue-level destruction occurred this time around. Mr. Reed had left their paychecks intact. So pleased was he that he'd reached out to his superiors about introducing the show to US television. A trial showing of the first episode had gone well.

Erica found the circus of press she had to navigate in promoting the move a lonely road. Ed had, rightly, been wrapped up in his second stab at rehab up until now.

"Will you be heading to the States yourself to promote the show?"

"At some point, I'm sure. For the time being, I feel I need to be here" She smiles to herself, picturing John and the darling little girl waiting for her at home. "I've got a daughter to look after."

The interviewer chuckles at something. "I can't imagine you as a mother" he sees fit to comment, "Is that an odd thing to say?"

Erica makes no effort to conceal the rolling of her eyes. She wasn't surprised. The company was bursting at the seams with such characters. Of course, she never let their words slide. "What do you think a mother _should_ look like?" she challenges.

The old man falters. His body language stiffens, a tightness setting in his features that let her know he hadn't expected to be questioned. "Well, you're known for dressing a _certain way_ ". The old weapon of the tabloids, forever catching her as she left parties with the express purpose of suggesting the revealing numbers she wore were her usual threads. Not that she'd give a fuck if she _did_ always dress that way. "You're a troublemaker, just like Ed."

 _Ah_ , the insecure man's favorite response.

"What's it like living in the 1950s? I'm _fascinated_ " she retorts.

The interviewer recoils, though quickly forces a chuckle. He wanted the discussion to be perceived as harmless banter. "We're going off track" he recognizes, "I'm sorry I opened my mouth now-"

" _Me too_."

He attempts a penetrating stare, a subdued malice in his eyes. Doubtless, she wouldn't be getting an invitation to return. Erica shrugs it off and lights a cigarette.

"It wasn't my intention to shock you" the aging journalist returns, his attempt at eliciting some level of embarrassment in her.

She takes a long drag and cooly sends a thick cloud of smoke in his direction. "Oh, darling, I stopped being shocked by men like you a long time ago."

* * *

Roger consults the dwindling stash of peanuts in the bowl resting on his lap. Most of them had ended up in Brian’s hair, as usual.

He and John had developed a points system for the game. They’d started pelting Freddie on occasion when the singer had accused them of being cruel.

The hour came when Fred felt too tired to continue. Jim on his arm, he’d said his goodbyes and hobbled ever so slightly out of the studio.

Brian had stuck around after hours, dabbling with some new sounds. Anita had arrived at some point and whisked him off to a fabulous evening at the theatre.

As such, the only company Roger had left was Ed.

“Can I ask you something” he hears himself speak.

“Go for it.”

“Why did you end up in rehab again?”

Ed sighs. It was a reasonable inquiry. Most of the people around him hadn’t been privy to the details of his second breakdown. He’d felt ashamed, caving like that, especially after the grief he’d caused first time around.

”Stress. Putting myself in situations where it was easy to pour a glass or something. Mixture of things.”

He’d learned upon his return that Erica had banned alcohol from set. She’d told visiting musicians and entertainers that they’d have to go somewhere else to drink and snort, or be dropped from the guest list.

”Oh, and my mother turned up again.”

Roger grimaces. His memories of Mrs. Tetley remained regrettably clear.

”What did that old bat want?” he scoffs.

”To _gloat_ , mainly” Ed replies darkly, “Some other cousin of mine got a big promotion. So, naturally, anything I did meant absolutely nothing.”

”She always gets in my fucking head. It’s so easy for her.”

The drummer tuts. It pained him, seeing how the woman affected him. Even from afar she twisted his thoughts, made him feel awful.

To Roger, Ed was the least awful person alive.

“You shouldn’t have to put up with that.”

Ed shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

The barb goes right to Roger’s heart. He deserved it. He’d royally fucked the other man over the day of Erica and John’s wedding and never apologized. He’d hadn’t come clean to Debbie about what happened, either.

”We’re on a break” he utters, “Me and Deb”. He’d meant to preface the revelation with something, but it jumped out.

Ed’s jaw drops an inch or two.

”I’m sorry” he bids.

 _Liar_.

“What happened?”

It’s Roger’s turn to shrug now, though the nonchalant face he fronts is far less convincing.

”We’re both so busy” he argues, “I’ve got this new album. She’s got all her modelling work.”

Ed toys with his newly cut hair self-consciously. When he sets his hand down again on his arm rest, he finds Roger’s there too, fingers tapping just inches from him.

”That’s a shame” he chances.

A blonde eyebrow shoots up from the rim of the drummer’s sunglasses. “Is it?” he asks flatly.

His fingers inch nearer.

Ed feels every hair on his body prick up in anticipation. He tries to bury the sensation. “I’m not lying” he swipes, “That’s your domain.”

Roger lifts his sunglasses. His eyes were locked angrily. His lip curls, an insult dancing there.

He’s most surprised when he leans over to the other seat to _kiss_ the man.

Lips meet clumsily. Shocked hands grapple with one another. Ed tears himself away, flushed.

“You’ve got to stop doing that” he breathes.

His eyes drop to Roger’s lips, red and parted. His thoughts cloud over. Just like when he’d kissed him in the gas station bathroom in ‘87.

”And I’ve _really_ got to stop responding to it.”

Without another thought, he casts the bowl of peanuts away and climbs into the drummers lap.

* * *

Little George had been most alarmed by the sound of rapid footsteps chasing the staircase. Her pacifier had dropped from her mouth when the door to her nursery opened. Then she'd broken out in a gummy grin, babbling happily.

Her mother was home.

Erica scoops her daughter into her arms. She maintains a secure hold, one hand on her back, the other on her head. She hums contentedly, rejuvenated by the amused gargles in her ear. Absentmindedly she presses her face to the soft fabric of the baby's sleepsuit, inhaling deeply. Everything about her was perfect. 

Except on obvious, messy occasions.

"I missed you" she breathes. She knew she'd woken the poor spot, but knew she wouldn't sleep without one last cuddle. "You'll have to do the telly with me. You can take Ed's place."

George giggles, pawing a chubby fist at her mother's neck.

Reluctantly, Erica lays her back down in her bassinet. She double checks the monitor paired with that in hers and John's room and pulls the blankets back over her. With a final kiss goodnight, followed by several more that she vowed would be the last, she flicks the light off and retires to bed.

John's already in his pajamas, sat up in bed with his nose in a book. He wore glasses to read now, another sign of aging he'd been apprehensive about acknowledging. He'd given in to the grey in his hair. Swathes of brown still remained, but he was grounded enough to know they wouldn't last much longer. Really, he wasn't old at all. Thirty-eight this year, and in good shape.

It was stress that bit at him. The culmination of decades of hard work and the worry of having an increasingly sick friend.

The couple exchanges their usual questions about their days. John brings up some of the funny things George had done at the studio that Erica wished she'd been able to appreciate first hand. Not that her day had been entirely wasted after that horrible interview.

"I bumped into Morten in the green room" she notes cheerily, speaking to her husband from the en-suite while she went about her usual pre-bed rituals.

John stops reading but doesn't lower his book. " _Who_?" he attempts.

" _Morten Harket_."

His grip on the novel tightens involuntarily.

 _The ex-boyfriend_.

"What's he up to these days?" John's conscious of his tone, wanting to sound politely interested.

"Promoting the band's tour."

" _Oh_."

He scrambles to conceal his expression when his wife enters the room. _Too late_. She catches his discomfort and angles her head curiously at him. "I take it you wouldn't be best pleased if I went out to dinner with him later in the week" she concludes.

“Go for it” John nods, feigning support.

Hardly a glowing endorsement. Though Erica doesn’t probe him on it. It wasn’t worth discussing. He enjoyed a friendship with Ronnie. Why shouldn’t she be allowed to spend time with Morten?

John was forever a man of contrasts. Self-assured one minute, insecure the next. Erica had learned to cope with the ebbs and flows of his feelings since they got married. Ed’s recent plight had made her all too aware of the emotional effects of having a friend in turmoil.

Roger told her that he’d always been slightly erratic. He just trusted her enough to show it now. Felt comfortable sharing whatever he was going through, be it good or bad.

“How was the studio?” Erica asks, deliberately changing tact, “You got any lyrics down for that bass line yet?”

She pestered him to play it whenever she wandered into the home studio. John keenly indulged her, aware of the carnal effect it always had on her.

“It’s coming together nicely” he reveals.

Erica slips into bed beside him, cozy now she’d traded her work clothes for her pajamas. John sets his book down and switches off the bedside lamp.

They settle into the darkness for a moment. Erica feels a cheeky smirk spread across her lips. The room submerged in shadow, she misses the pensive glare her husband aims at the ceiling.

“Will I like it?” she purrs, gracefully sliding over to his side of the mattress, “The song?”

”I hope so” John voices. His breath catches in his throat. A soft hand starts to stroke his stubbled cheek. “It’s for you”.

“I don’t deserve you” Erica murmurs. She leans in to bite his bottom lip softly.

John does his best to hold off. Her last sentence had stuck in his mind in a way he didn’t like about himself, what with _Morten_ suddenly reappearing in her life.

He doesn’t manage it. She tasted too sweet. Soon he’s succumbing to the dirty sentiments she spoke in between feverish kisses, her hand disappearing into his pants.

Erica enjoys listening to him moan for a while, a gentle heat growing at her core the more she pleased him.

But then he stops.

Just visible in the yellow streetlight nipping at the bedroom curtains, a sadness glazes over his eyes.

Gently he lifts her hands from him, gracing her with one more kiss. It felt more like a courtesy than something heartfelt.

”Bit tired.”

Erica draws her grasp away. “That’s okay, Habibi” she reassures him.

“Good night, love” John wishes. He rolls onto his side, away from her.

Erica listens to his ragged breaths, watches his shoulders rise and fall with each of them. She tries to piece together his expression, the one he deliberately wore where she couldn’t see.

There was nothing wrong with him feeling tired. He’d had a long day. But was that _it_?

She feels her stomach turn. It was happening _yet again_ , wasn’t it? Him fearfully shutting her out.

There’s some comfort for her when he begins to snore. Silently she prays for him to have the sweetest dreams. For their daughter to sleep through and not disturb him at some godawful time.

Erica tries to drift off. Alas, not even thinking over the mundane details of the show going to America could send her off. And that stuff _really_ fucking bored her.

So she spends most of the night staring upward, waiting for morning to arrive.


	27. The Miracle Express

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Work continues on the new album. Ed puts his foot down. John and Erica analyze their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time to read this chapter, you have time to sign this petition demanding justice for George Floyd:  
> https://bit.ly/2XXkT2W
> 
> Please also consider this petition on the inhumane use of rubber bullets by cops during the protests:  
> https://bit.ly/372CIBF
> 
> Every signature counts.
> 
> If you can, please also consider donating to the memorial fund set up by George’s family:  
> https://bit.ly/3eMVmjB
> 
> Or to Reclaim the Block:  
> https://linktr.ee/reclaimtheblock
> 
> Stay safe x

Roger and Debbie seemed terribly cozy for two people _on a break_. Ed makes the observation from across the train platform, eyes narrowed.

A whistle sounds. A sparse grey fog drifts down from the driver's cabin. Or from Ed's ears. He couldn't tell, but he was certain steam billowed from both.

Yet again he'd let the drummer have his way with him, only to be left questioning whether it _meant_ anything. Roger was caught between two people. A love triangle wasn't anywhere near as charming as the movies made out.

He'd called for Tom, formerly known as _Mr. Reed_ to he and Erica, to collect him from the set, an act of revenge that had turned into quite a delightful prospect in Ed's mind. He enjoyed Tom's company. He'd held off on actually asking the man out up until now. But if all Roger was capable of was stringing him along, what was the harm?

Summoned by a producer for some pre-video preparation, Roger leaves Debbie alone. The blonde woman approaches Erica, contentedly mumbling to baby George. "She's _gorgeous_ " she compliments, gazing adoringly at the little girl, "So much of you in her. And John."

Her parents saw more of themselves in their daughter's face every morning. A healthy crop of dense curls covered her scalp almost entirely now. Erica could imagine the girl having hair exactly like hers when she grew up. To her constant delight whenever they opened, George's eyes were near identical to John's. In color, absolutely, but also in the way they _sparkled_.

"Where did you get your maternity clothes?" Debbie poses, catching her off guard.

Erica frowns instinctively. "The high street stores mainly. Nothing fancy" she answers.

Debbie nods. She notices the other woman's confusion and leans near, smiling curiously. "I might need some hand-me-downs at some point" she whispers.

"You're _pregnant_?"

Erica almost drops her own baby in shock.

The look Debbie aims Roger's way is confirmation enough. The model didn't appear overly worried. Not as she'd been when she discovered she and John were to be parents. No, she was _excited_.

The drummer hadn't acted as though he was sitting on a secret.

"I haven't told Rog yet. It's been complicated. We're meant to be on a break from one another right now". She gazes prettily at him from afar. Erica realizes the 'going on a break' idea probably hadn't come from her.

Ed cuts a thoroughly pissed off figure a meters away.

She thought he'd been distracted lately.

Debbie strides away confidently. Her pregnancy was in its early stages, by the looks of things. There was no bump detectable through her costume, tight-fitting as it was. Erica tries to imagine the woman sharing the news with Roger while dressed that way. The black dress she wore was harmless enough. The black and silver eye mask painted onto her was a bit odd though.

"I petitioned to have you appear in the video," says John, stamping a cigarette out on the ground. He dusts any stray ashes from his clothes and hands before he approaches George. Both her parents were regular smokers and were totally diligent in maintaining the habit at a safe distance.

"Oh, no" Erica responds, "I don't fancy standing on that train while it's moving."

Music videos were a reliable way of selling records by now. Most groups invested heavily in them. It was a pomposity that the band had effectively pioneered. Where others might have decided on an extravagant film set, Queen had gone for an entire fucking steam train.

The words ' _Miracle Express_ ' were emblazoned on its red body. A small stage had been fitted to the back, drum kit and all. Erica hadn't been sure how to react when she'd learned the boys planned to actually stand and play while it tore through the countryside.

"You'd better come back in one piece" she warns, pressing a kiss to her husband's cheek. She straightens out the lapel of the colorful vest he wore. Between that, the loose cut jeans and the sunglasses, he'd never resembled the stereotypical _dad_ more. She adored him, head to toe.

"I'd better see you before I head off this evening" she adds. She returns George's pacifier to her when it drops out of her mouth.

It takes a moment for John to register her words, too busy wiping the drool off his daughter's chin, grinning as though it were the sweetest sight of all. "Where are you off to?"

"Production meeting at the BBC, then I'm out with Morten again" Erica explains. She bites back a sigh when his face falls. "I _did_ tell you."

The warning didn't make him any more comfortable. Since the dinner she'd promised to join Morten in, they'd struck up a solid friendship. John had even returned from the studio one afternoon to find the Norweigan in his sitting room, chatting animatedly with a cup of tea in his hand, little Georgia on his knee.

John didn't want to be one of _those_ husbands. The kind who cast a suspicious eye at any company their partner kept. He trusted Erica wholeheartedly, as she trusted him.

 _Fuck_ , it still didn't sit right though. If it wasn't work that kept her away, it was _him_.

Erica suspected it had nothing to do with Morten being her ex-boyfriend at all. He approached her busy schedule with the same skepticism.

He was getting older, tired, and more dependent on the presence of his family. Freddie's situation certainly didn't ease his dependency.

She watches the singer rehearse with Debbie. It was one of his better days. He was full of life, handsome in black jeans and a tight, white shirt. He beard he sported suited him. Jim had shaved his mustache off in solidarity.

John reaches out for his daughter, set on a quiet moment with her before he had to climb aboard the train. The girl snuggles against his neck, dark eyes drooping softly beneath the midday sun. "I guess we'll have to _share_ mummy" he mutters. In his head, it was a conciliatory remark, a much-needed olive branch after recent weeks. 

Erica isn't impressed. Her jaw clenches immediately. It was infuriating enough that he dragged his feet over her working so much. It didn't matter that he'd virtually spent every day since the New Year in the studio. Having a packed career was only a problem when it concerned _her_. And for him to cling to George like that, to take _sides_? Like he was trying to use their child against her?

In the more immature stages of her life, she'd have walked off.

Instead, she summons one of the band's attending makeup artists. " _Betty_?" The woman scurries over to the couple when she's done powdering Brian's face. "I think my husband needs a top-up."

Betty checks John over. The makeup applied to him was subtle, just there to ensure his face showed up properly on camera. "I'm thinking a dash of mascara. Some blush" Erica points out. She reclaims her daughter. John had backed off, intimidated by the brush now waving under his nose. He hated having his appearance fussed over.

“Maybe a bright red nose.”

Betty pauses. “Like a clown?”

“ _Exactly_.”

 _Maybe it was still pretty immature_ , she realizes.

She doesn't feel any better about herself when one of the reporters who'd circulated about the train station approaches. The journalist lays a hand on his forearm, rather familiar for someone who'd only spoken to him once. "When you're ready, John" she urges.

John nods quietly, bracing himself for another damn interview.

Reluctantly he bids his daughter farewell, then his wife. He kisses her, wraps his arm around her waist. Doesn't wish her luck for the rest of the day as he usually did, though, because Morten was a part of it.

"See you later" Erica bids.

Ed stood at the edge of the parking lot, hands on his hips. A man in need of a gossip.

Erica tries to compose herself as she makes her way over. She'd just realized she hadn't called her husband _Habibi_ as normal.

"He's flirting with her" Ed complains, shielding his mouth behind his hand. Back on the platform, Roger helps Debbie up onto the stage at the back of the train. Erica's sight drifts to her flat midriff. "Well, they are having a-"

Ed eyes her suspiciously.

"A great time. Look at this weather, it's gorgeous."

 _Weak, but it'd do for now_. Debbie's pregnancy was her own business.

"Need a lift?"

"No thanks. Tom's whisking me away."

Mr. Reed turns into the parking lot on demand. The expensive motor he drives stops at the sidewalk. A tinted window rolls down. "I hear there's a handsome gentleman in need of a ride" he chirps.

Ed nudges Erica. " _That's me!_ "

She pulls her friend aside before he climbs in. "Keep him around, won't you?" 

"Why? 'Cause he's rich?"

"Because he makes you _smile_."

* * *

Ed woke to an empty bed. It had been that way all night. Or rather, every night since his last indiscretion with Roger.

His date with Tom Reed had been everything he’d hoped for.

They’d enjoyed a peaceful meal at a country pub not too far from the station the Miracle Express sat in. Then they’d gone for a drive, zooming along narrow lanes with the wind in their hair. Tom had lowered the car roof so Ed could stand up in the passenger seat and freely reach his arms up toward the Heavens.

His date dropped him off at his home and kissed him goodnight, a perfect gentleman.

Ed had implied that he was more than welcome to stay a while. He’d dressed the suggestion up by claiming he hadn’t had the chance to entertain guests since he’d moved in.

The house, just a block from Erica and John’s, had been bought with the bonus he received after the TV show got picked up in America.

Someone knocks on the door, loud and brash despite the early hour. Ed assumes it must be Erica. She took full advantage of their new proximity and used the house as base for their work.

And a refuge when she and John were bickering again.

Instead, it’s Roger.

 _Great_.

He lifts his sunglasses the second the front door opens, something Ed recognized as the drummer’s uniquely odd way of being serious.

“ _Hey_ ” he says, sounding more like a question than a greeting.

“I’m sorry for turning up like this. I would’ve called but-“ Roger scratches at his hair nervously. “Well, it didn’t seem right saying it over the phone.”

He takes a deep breath.

Ed feels his heart leap into his throat. Whatever the other man had to say was something of consequence. Something deep.

His imagination kicks in. The blissful thoughts he had of Tom vanish, replaced by a striking possibility: had Roger come over to commit to him?

“It’s been really difficult” Roger goes on, burying his hands deep within his pockets, “And I’m not proud of the way I’ve strung you and Debbie along.”

Ed feels himself lean further out of the doorway, green eyes alight. Finally, the messing around would stop. They’d be back together again. _Properly_. For good this time, too, with any luck.

Because Roger was going to choose _him_.

“But I have to give it a go with her.”

It’s visibly tricky for the man to meet his former lover’s eyes. Holding their focus was even harder.

Ed loses all sense of himself. He’s stunned his limbs don’t give way from under him. Somehow he remains upright, nails digging into the doorframe.

"Deb’s pregnant” Roger reveals, looking away again. He itches at his sunglasses, eager to put them on again. To shield himself from the heartbroken face before him. “I’ve got to do the right thing.”

Ed nods, tight-lipped.

"I’m sorry.”

"Why?” He clears his throat. “I’m sure you’ll make a lovely family.”

The sentiment was hollow. Roger flinches. But what else could he have expected? Smiles and sympathy?

“Promise me we’re still mates” Roger pleads, “Please.”

 _Mates_. They’d parted countless times at this point on the premise of just being friends. It never meant anything. Any further promises to remain friendly would end as normal. With them in bed together. Then something would happen, someone would turn Roger's head, and they'd be back where they started.

No more.

" _No_ , Rog."

Ed had hoped he'd be empowered by the decision. All he feels is pain.

" _Oh_ ," Roger mumbles, backing off from the doorstep. A wall cements itself between them. "I understand."

Ed doubted it. The other man looked too lost to get it. He hoped it'd sink in on the drive home, or when it came time to go to sleep. It didn't matter how long it took, so long as the message actually reached him.

No more phone calls, no more flirting, no more spur of the moment advances.

"See you around-"

"Just a minute."

Roger steps forward again, pale face lighting up hopefully. Like a man on a cliff edge, he teeters as his former lover dashes into the house. Eventually, Ed returns, having taken his time. He hands a faded bundle of cloth to the drummer.

The old ' _World's Best Wife_ ' apron.

It wouldn't have felt right, wearing it for anyone else. No matter how dear a partner Tom might become.

Roger studies it slowly, a blossoming front yard fading to grey before him. "Cheers" He clears his throat. Pulls his shades back over his eyes. "We’ll have to-"

Ed already has his hand on the door handle.

"Well, I'll see you. Hopefully."

The front door closes. Ed stands fast against the frame, certain he'd end up watching the blonde walk along the driveway if he moved. He couldn't do that. He couldn't watch him leave.

Stepping into the kitchen, he shuts the drawer he'd retrieved the apron from.

Somewhere between freedom and agony, he stumbles his way over to the telephone. He dials a number he'd already memorized. The person on the other end of the line answers straight away.

"Hey. I know it's early, and it's a workday" he speaks. Tom waits patiently. "But I'd love someone to talk to."

* * *

_She understands me_

_She understands me_

_Understands me right_

Freddie sways before the microphone, eyes clenched shut. With limber movements, he matches the beat, head thrown back slightly as Brian injected his guitar into the mix.

Erica was certain she'd felt the bassline through the concrete of the parking lot the moment she pulled up to the studio. From there, it had been a quick dash inside. With every door she opened, every corridor she traipsed, she unlocked a little more of the song.

It had developed considerably since John first developed the riff. There were drums now, tightly punched by a rather depressed-looking Roger. Brian picked away at Red Special, slow, _sensual_. It was perfectly simple but oh-so effective.

Dave Richards had let her know the working title for the track: ' _My Baby Does Me_ '

_My baby cares_

_She really cares_

_She knows what's really right for me_

A smug smile wriggles its way to Erica's lips. John had already told her the song was for _her_. Through the screen of the mixing room, she watches her husband, studies his every move. He tugs at his bass strings with ease, bopping gently on the spot. His fingers travel along the fretboard, applying pressure at just the right spots.

Erica nibbles at the tip of her finger. Oh, _to get him home again_. The things she'd do.

_Does me good then she hurts me so_

_She winds me up then lets me go_

_Turns me on and then tells me no_

The red haze through which she peered begins to thin.

She wanted to assume the lyrics just referred to her teasing of him. The little games they played when they were feeling randy. They'd been a pretty hot-blooded couple from the very start. She'd been quite amazed that _One Year of Love_ turned out as wholesome as it did.

But they'd been having problems again, because of some bizarre, pent-up jealousy on John's end. A frustrated need for her to be constantly around him, her other interests be damned.

_My baby loves me_

_My baby loves me_

_My baby cuffs me_

Dave turns his head when she snorts, bemused by the torrid sequence of emotions the bassist's wife appeared to be going through.

John had promised her he would keep _that_ side of their sex life quiet.

_One day she tells me that she cares_

_Another day she tells me she don't love me_

"What the fuck?" she breathes.

That _definitely_ wasn't about playful teasing was it? It wasn't even retrospective, his interpretation of their relationship in previous years when they'd bickered a lot. Even broken up at one sorry point.

No, this was John's telling of the here and now. And it made no sense at all.

Roger misses a beat, too swept up in his own melancholy. A once delightful rhythm falls apart, piece by piece. Brian takes advantage of the break. “Are you sure you want to keep that in, Deaky?” he asks.

John sighs, amplified through the mic.

Freddie spots their visitor first. His brows dip sadly. He blows her a kiss in an effort to make her smile, but it doesn’t reach that far.

John follow’s the singer’s gaze. Like a ton of bricks it hits him. Not that his wife had made a surprise journey to the studio. That she’d overheard a tortured part of himself he’d hoped to keep under wraps.

Erica maps her escape from Metropolis as determinedly as she’d made her entrance. Even in a fit of anger, she couldn’t close the ridiculous succession of swinging doors fast enough.

She spins on her heel just as John reaches her.

“Have we been having the same argument for four years?” she fires, sick of treading on egg shells. “This is what it always comes to, isn’t it? Some daft notion that I somehow don’t love you enough.”

“I’m sick of it, John. All these different sides of you, it’s exhausting.”

John backs off, any apology he’d hoped to offer dying at the tip of his tongue. His defences spring into action. “Because you’re _such_ a walk in the park” he challenges.

“If I’m so fucking difficult, you shouldn’t have married me” Erica growls.

She chases the carpet tiles, ignoring the stares of alarmed record executives peering out from their offices. John persists as usual.

“This is exactly what I mean” he cries, “You _are_ difficult.”

They bite their lips as they pass through the lobby, conscious of creating of a scene. The press were known to snoop in the area. Another newspaper scandal was the last thing they needed.

”You know what you want one minute, then change your mind. You act so level-headed, then so immaturely.”

Erica faces him a foot or two away from her car.

”Burying your grief isn’t exactly mature either, John.”

John’s eyes glaze over with fury. It struck a nerve. Freddie’s illness was impossible to ignore these days, and he was hopelessly unequipped to cope with it.

“I’m glad I wrote that song the way I did” he declares, “It’s always _all-out_ with you. The good, the bad. You take it all and run a mile.”

Erica digs her keys out from her jean pocket. Fingers shaking, she tries to single out the right one for the driver side lock. John inches near to help, but she bats him away.

His examination of her was harsh. The knowledge that it was entirely accurate made it even worse.

“ _Again_ ” she exhales, “Maybe you shouldn’t have married me.”

“I married you because I _love_ you. I’m raising a kid with you because I _love_ you.”

”I love you too” Erica utters.

More than he’d ever know. She’d never be able to say how much she adored the life they’d built together. How the daughter they shared was worth more than her career, a thousand times over, because she was _theirs_.

“But we shouldn’t have to keep reminding ourselves of that.”

John reaches out. She doesn’t force him back this time.

Tentatively at first he laces their fingers together. Lifting her hand to his lips, he kisses her, just below the golden band on her ring finger.

”Then let’s work on it.”

* * *

They were true to their word.

Erica no longer dithered in returning home from work when she’d promised to be back by a certain time. If things did overrun, she’d call home and warn him.

She still saw Morten. John spoke to Ronnie more, realizing that some former partners genuinely _could_ make great friends.

John opened up more. He didn’t require coaxing when discussing his anxieties. Often he’d sit down with her of an evening and share the things Freddie and Jim had revealed to him at the studio. The grim timeline mapped out by their doctor.

The creases weren’t totally ironed out. They never would be. But they were _bearable_.

At the end of another relatively blissful day, the Deacons decided team up to read a bedtime story to their toddler.

Erica provided the voices for all the characters, breaking into ridiculous mimes where she felt necessary.

Which was every other sentence.

John acted as a narrator. He’d had to pause several times, unable to stem the fits of laughter his wife’s acting prompted from him.

“Your Uncle Roger’s having a baby” he tells his daughter. The child blinks at him vacantly. “You’ll have someone else to play with.”

Erica smiles at the pair, warm and content. “Maybe one day you’ll have a brother or sister to play with”. She covers her mouth, certain she’d just _thought_ it, not _said_ it.

John doesn’t pounce on the suggestion. He knew better now.

George slides into a peaceful slumber, pure and perfect.

Erica’s drifting nicely towards sweet dreams when she feels lips graze her neck. “You’re _awake_.”

John snakes a hand under the bedsheets. Tenderly he traces the curve of her hip, stopping just shy of her core. “Thought we could get started on a brother or sister for George.”

“Not right now, Habibi” Erica hums. She pushes her behind against his crotch when his caresses falter. “The baby thing, I mean.”

“I’m perfectly happy for you to push my face into this mattress right now and make me see double.”

* * *

So much for post-shag clarity. Erica could barely string a sentence together.

Into her pillow she breathes, ragged and hoarse. She’d caught herself biting into the material several times in an effort not to scream.

They’d gone at it for a good while, slow and gentle in one breath, rough and unforgiving in the next. John had finished before her. He’d taken full advantage of his deft fingers in helping his wife reach her own climax.

Erica had very nearly jumped his bones again when he’d slid those same fingers into her mouth, cockily asking whether she’d clean them for him.

”The company wants Ed and I to go to America” she manages.

She’d had the trip sprung on her earlier in the day, and had held off on mentioning it lest she disturb the peace.

John emerges from the bathroom, fresh after cleaning himself off.

“ _America_?”

“To promote the show over there.”

He scratches his chin pensively. He wasn’t immediately struck by the idea at the very least.

“Come with me. We can bring George.”

“We’re in the middle of an album.”

As it’d been before their escape to Bali.

“The boys won’t mind if they lose you for a week.”

“Erica, I don’t know-”

“ _Please_?”

They had a good thing going. There was no way to get out of the US trip, so bringing the family along was her only option. George had to be included. She couldn’t bear to think about being parted from her for an entire week.

Erica waits to see if he’ll embark on another chain of passive-aggressive comments about her schedule.

“Erica?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ll go to America with you.”


	28. Kids in America

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chaotic duo take on America! Erica learns some uncomfortable truths. John showcases his disco moves...
> 
> (This is a LONG one! Includes a lovely Freddie and Jim moment, and some good ol' steaminess)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cameos from Keith Richards and Tony Iommi in this one
> 
> Please refer back to chapter 20 for a refresh if you need to!
> 
> Songs mentioned in this chapter:
> 
> Killed by Death by Motörhead  
> Gotta Go Home by Boney M  
> Ain't Nobody by Rufus & Chaka Khan

"Delilah! Focus!"

Freddie manages to get an artful snap of his cat before she wriggles from her father's grasp. He'd sat her down several times over the last hour to participate in a 'family photo shoot'. Most of the cats had sat remarkably calmly, lulled into obedience by the promise of an extra portion at dinner time. Freddie was certain that was it, anyway.

Her role fulfilled, Delilah sulks over to her usual armchair. She flops her tail over her eyes, a warning for her parents not to disturb her again. Freddie watches her mischievously, toying with the idea of getting his video camera out.

He'd been trying to teach her to do a backward flip, to no avail.

"Why's there an extra place set out at the dinner table?" Jim queries, setting two hot cups of tea down on the coffee table. He pops out two pills of Freddie's medication and sets them on the saucer.

"Roger's joining us for dinner."

Jim groans. It would be the third time this week. The drummer may as well move his things in.

"Don't be like that, darling" Freddie tuts, "He's _bereft_."

"Evidently he's made the wrong decision then."

Freddie taps his husband on the forearm lightly, shaking his head disapprovingly. He didn't mind watching out for his bandmate. It was nice to fuss over them sometimes. What else was family for?

Brian was a routine target of Roger's sorrows. Anita had protested over the frequency of his visits. The actress was perfectly Saintly in many ways, but more often than she liked she'd returned home from the Eastenders set to find her fed-up boyfriend trying to untangle the complicated web Roger had spun himself into.

The drummer was happy about Debbie's announcement and intrigued by the prospect of happy family life with her. But there would be _no Ed_. Getting over their complicated romantic history was manageable, he was certain of it. It was Ed's decision to cut him out entirely that had wounded him.

"He couldn't have them both" Freddie argues, casting a warm throw over his and Jim's knees. "I think it was very mature of him to choose Debbie. And mature of Ed to put his foot down."

"You're probably right, dear". He kisses his husband lovingly. Freddie insists on another, then one more after then settles against the Irishman's side. One of the cats hops up onto the coffee table and meows at his parents for attention.

" _Kids_ " Jim sighs, scooping the animal into his arms.

Freddie retrieves his tea, eyeing his pills bleakly. He swallows them with a grimace, clutching Jim's leg for support. It wasn't pleasant stuff. Left him with dreadful headaches some evenings. But then, nothing about it was pleasant, was it?

He shakes himself before the thought can fester.

"Do you think _we'll_ ever have kids?" he poses, ardently blinking at his husband with soft brown eyes.

"I don't think we can, darling."

"No, but say _in another life_. We might have a family."

Jim wraps a strong arm around the other man's slender shoulders. Cuddling him as he did, he could feel the bones starting to define his frame. His clothes hung off him. Somehow the man still found the energy to dance. Not as often as he used to, but just enough. It was their favorite way to end the day: slipping an Aretha Franklin record on and swaying in a tight embrace.

"That would be nice" Jim agrees.

"They'd be so _beautiful_ " Freddie swoons, eyes lighting up at the idea. "I've often thought about stealing Erica and John's little girl away and adopting her as ours."

Freddie and Jim were dedicated uncles, as they were to all of the boy's children. As the youngest, Georgia usually got the most attention. They willingly stepped in as babysitters when the Deacons' usual was otherwise engaged. For hours they'd watch over the toddler in the garden. Jim would hold her hand and guide her around his wonderful flower beds. Freddie would sit her on his knee and sing to her.

They spoiled her rotten while she was at Garden Lodge, always keeping a tight lip when her parents arrived to collect her.

"Do you think George's enjoying the L.A sunshine? I'm quite jealous."

"We'll have to go on our trip to Spain soon, darling."

They'd had the excursion planned for some time, but hadn't been able to go until they received the thumbs up from Freddie's doctors. It would make the perfect respite once the album was completed.

"We'll have a thousand times more fun than Erica" Freddie declares cheekily.

Jim grins, pressing his lips to his beloved's forehead. "I thought it was a work trip."

"Oh, it is. But you know her."

* * *

Erica splutters, dense smoke pouring out of her nostrils. She staggers slightly, the substance going straight to her nervous system. She hands the blunt back to its owner and bows to him, admitting defeat.

Keith Richards cackles. He takes a hit freely, confidently twirling the smoke between his fingers. "We like it strong here, sweetheart" he winks.

Erica pulls out a handkerchief from her leather jacket to cough into. A slightly uptight patron dancing nearby, visibly out of place as the brightest dressed person in the room, frowns at her. She considers tapping the man on the shoulder and asking if he'd entered the wrong club by mistake.

This was the _Whisky a Go Go_.

Their media obligations done for the day, Erica and Ed had gravitated over to the Sunset Strip on Hollywood's Westside. They'd always heard tales of the place in magazines. Many of their guests on their show had their own stories, urging the pair to visit the area should they ever find themselves in the States.

It was exactly what they'd expected. Wonderful, eclectic, seedy, and thoroughly mad.

Keith had been another guest on the late-night talk show they'd appeared on, promoting a solo record. Together they'd peered into the nearby _Troubadour_ , disappointed to find a sedate folk act headlining. The _Whisky_ had presented itself as an outrageous haven on a corner of Sunset Boulevard.

Its exterior ablaze with colorful ads and posters, the group had waltzed in, instantly greeted by cheers and the potent sound of Motörhead's _Killed by Death_ playing overhead.

One of the staff taps Erica on the arm. She makes her excuses to Keith for a moment and retreats to one of the back rooms, where a telephone rang for her.

"Everything okay?" she practically shouts down the receiver. Worry had been quietly eating at her all evening.

"We're _fine_ " Ed cautions, "Just reading her a story until she nods off again". She could hear little George gurgling on the other end.

Ed had retired early, not wanting to be caught up in a party given previous struggles. He was perfectly comfortable at the Beverly Hills accommodation they shared, as was her daughter.

John had mentioned briefly that he owned a place in Los Angeles. He'd not used it much in recent years, always recording or holidaying elsewhere. It was surprisingly grand.

The house sat on top of a steep hill. A long garden stretched out to the edge of the rock, overlooking the bay. Erica sometimes forgot just how wealthy her husband was. He never splashed his money about, never bragged about his earnings. He'd almost seemed embarrassed when their taxi pulled up to the home. He reckoned he'd bought it spur of the moment several years ago, and had always detested how big it was.

Erica loved it. She loved everything she'd seen of Hollywood so far.

"Are you drunk?"

"A little."

"High?"

" _Very_."

"I'm sure John'll love that."

John had gone out with an old friend of his, Errol Brown from Hot Chocolate. Discos weren't exactly the norm in the area anymore, so they'd decided on a local soul club.

"I'm _celebrating_ , Ed."

Everything was going splendidly. She'd been quite unnerved by American television at first. The late shows especially hosted gigantic audiences who applauded and whooped at every other word.

Ed and Erica had been visibly alarmed when they'd walked out onto the _Letterman_ stage some days earlier, during a brief stint in New York, to see the audience members on their feet, clapping vigorously. British audiences were more restrained on the whole. They'd taken the piss out of such enthusiasm by bowing dramatically after everything they said.

"Where shall we go next?" Ed boasts. He repeats the question to a sleepy George. She babbles, managing one word in English and one in Arabic. "I think she said Europe but I can't be certain."

"The _world's_ ours, Ed" Erica proclaims, sweeping her arms aloft grandly.

"You're cut off" her friend jokes.

"I'll pour one out for you."

"You _bitch_."

They laugh ridiculously at one another then say their goodnights. Erica insists on whistling her usual bedtime melody to her daughter before she hangs up. The child would be fast asleep by the time she arrived back at the house. Ed and John would be too, no doubt.

She wasn't sure when her trip out with Keith had descended into a full-blown rager, but she'd settled on just rolling with it.

Her friend has someone else by him when she returns to the bar.

Quite tall, slim, and sporting a healthy crop of dark hair, a matching mustache on his top lip. Like most of the other patrons, his outfit was predominantly black. A heavy gold crucifix hung around his neck. He speaks in a thick Birmingham accent. "Alright, bab? I'm Tony."

Erica had met the man in passing. He was a good friend of Brian's. She was certain she'd heard his voice before though, many years before she ought to have known him. 

"I'm off for a bump. Fancy joining in?" Keith invites.

"No thanks, mate" Erica replies. That sort of stuff wasn't of interest to her. She knew better.

Tony gestures politely to the barman. He gives his order and looks to her expectantly. "Shot of Jack, please. Single" she requests.

"Your mother always ordered the same” Tony comments, smiling softly.

Erica almost chokes on her drink. “Excuse me?”

“Couldn’t believe it when you started turning up on telly. It took me ages to realize you were Chione’s daughter.”

For a good while she studies the man, notes his aging features, trying to figure out how the Hell the guitarist from Black Sabbath might know her mother.

It clicks, later than she’d have liked.

She thinks back to one of the evenings etched in her memory, of her mother getting ready for a night out. The habitually lovely couple from next door, Joni and Dawn, had called round to babysit. Her mum’s boyfriend had appeared not long afterward, a gruff-looking figure with a strange accent who called himself _Tony_.

“My mother _went out_ with you?” Erica scoffs.

“For a few months, actually. Lasted longer than most” Tony nods, sipping at a beer, “I was very sorry to hear she’d died. Only found out a couple of years ago.”

“I see a lot of her in you. Especially when I caught you on _Letterman_.”

Dazed as she was, Erica smiles. It was nice to discover a connection to her mother. Those who’d known the woman were few and far between now.  
  
“She’d have liked what you said about Reagan” Tony compliments, chuckling as a section of hers and Ed’s debut replayed in his head, “What was it again?”

Erica shrugs, too stoned to recall. “Something along the lines of him being a massive prick.”

“I can think of a much stronger word that would apply.”

”I can think of _several_.”

* * *

John stretches out on a sun lounger, pale limbs basking in the California glow. He was sorry he’d been so resistant to ditching the others at the studio. The break was doing him good.

Erica wasn’t in such a secure state. Nursing her aching temple, she stumbles out onto the terrace. She perches beneath the parasol, shunning the morning light.

“ _Sorry_.”

John chuckles softly. “I was the same at twenty-seven.”

Erica arches a brow skeptically. “ _Really_?”

Her husband blushes. “Perhaps not.”

He’d enjoyed his fair share of wild parties in the ‘70s. He was hard-pressed to name a band from that area that hadn’t acted excessively on occasion. Being totally extravagant wasn't his style, though. He enjoyed getting drunk every now and then, but drugs had never interested him a great deal.

His wife was certainly doing her part in continuing the rocker legacy.

She’d tripped her way up the driveway at 4 AM, raided the refrigerator, leaving a trail of wrappers in her wake, showered, then tiptoed into George’s nursery. John had found her curled up next to their daughter’s bassinet, fast asleep.

”Good night?” John asks. His own merry-making hadn’t been quite so extreme, but just as fun.

”Brilliant, actually” Erica concedes, blocking out the pounding in her head, “It was interesting.”

She fills him in on her inadvertent meeting with Tony, and the history the musician appeared to have with her late mother.

”I think my mum was a _groupie_.”

Erica sighs heavily. She’d never liked to use the word before. Always put a more romantic spin on her mother’s escapades. Told herself she was a dedicated fan who just so happened to always date the members of the bands passing through town.

John shuffles up on the lounger, patting the newly created space beside him. He offers her his glass of water when her voice becomes strained.

"There's nothing _wrong_ with it. She always looked after herself. Always stood up for herself."

The greatest woman she'd ever known. She'd had few options where heroes were concerned growing up, but Chione was forever her greatest.

"But you're left wondering whether there are other things you never realized about her" John fills in.

" _Exactly_."

Erica rests her head on her husband's shoulder, the closeness of him easing her every ache and pain. "It's like, I always thought my mum was _desperate_ to get back to me whenever she went out. That she wasn't able to enjoy herself because she knew she'd rather be home" she relays, "If she was late getting back, it was an accident."

That wasn't the case.

Her mother did miss her dearly. Tony had mentioned that she talked almost exclusively about her daughter.

But he'd also mentioned how she'd been the life of any party she walked into. How she'd spend every minute she could on the dance floor, passing hours be damned, knocking back her whisky with a tab of speed if it meant she could carry on grooving. How he'd often had to carry her to her taxi and ride with her back to the apartment to make sure she actually got home.

"I love my mum so much. I always wanted to be her" Erica voices, "And, I turned out _okay_ didn't I?"

John kisses her temple. "I'd say so" he soothes.

"But I don't think I _do_ want to be her" she decides, "And I don't want George to-" She falters, frightened of speaking ill of the only family she'd ever known growing up. "To have a mother like that."

"I don't mean that in a nasty way. I-" She can feel her mother staring down at her from the Heavens.

She groans and curls up against the man's side, the throbbing in her head making its unholy return. " _I don't know_ " she grumbles.

"You're a _wonderful_ mother" John praises. He plays with the thick strands of her hair, smiling down at her where she snuggles into his lap. "You're wonderful at everything."

Erica musters the energy to grin at him. She feels her cheeks flush. He was one of the few who'd ever been able to make her blush. _Parenting_ was something she felt rather insecure about, even eighteen months after giving birth. It meant the world to hear him reassure her.

"I don't want to depress you further" John sighs, "But I thought I ought to show it to you."

He withdraws a glossy magazine from beneath his sun lounger. The masthead was that of one of the more popular gossip rags back in Britain. They'd sent for a bundle of English publications in order to keep on top of the news. The magazine was folded on the third page.

"For God's _sake_."

' _SHE'S SO DIFFICULT! Scandalous relationship between Queen bassist and TV star on the rocks_ '

The accompanying story made it worse. _Matt_ , rearing his loathsome head to suck out what little attention he could now his career had flatlined.

' _ERICA WAS A NIGHTMARE WOMAN: My time with the BBC's resident showboat_ '

" _Prick_."

Not only had some nosy bastard who'd overheard their argument in the studio run to the papers, but they'd also opened her up to vilification again. In everything, whether it was related to her relationship with John or hers and Ed's show, the papers always aimed for _her_ throat first.

John hated it, more than he already hated appearing in the tabloids. "I'd ask why they always attack you" he mutters darkly, "But I know _exactly_ why."

Erica tosses the magazine into the pool where it could turn to mush and retreats into her husband's lap again.

"Why don't you come out with me tonight?" he asks, "We can be back in time to put George to bed. It'll be fun. Take your mind off things."

"And where will you take me, Habibi?" Erica wonders, desperate for a distraction.

"To the _disco_."

* * *

Ed was an entirely competent interviewer. He showcased the talent, instinctive as it was, on every episode of anything they'd ever done. Where Erica had consciously made an effort to not get spellbound by celebrities, he didn't give a shit.

Interviewing his co-host was slightly different.

The pair had been asked by _Good Morning America_ to question one another. On stools, they sat directly opposite one another. Each had been given prompts for their conversation. They'd neglected them largely, preferring talk to flow freely.

However, Ed was struggling. A suggestive phone call from Tom had put him in a giggly mood.

"So, Erica, you were born in Kent, weren't you?" He throws his hand over his mouth, eyes widening. _Kent_ hadn't sounded like _Kent_ at all.

"What did you just call me?" Erica quips.

The cameras are forced to reset. The pair endure a stiff talking to from GMA's director. It proves counterproductive. Even Erica was trying not to burst into hysterics now.

"You just said _cunt_ on American television" she quietly snorts to her friend.

Desperate to salvage some good from the appearance, Erica glances at her cue cards. It was a strange feeling. They'd been trusted, rather generously in their opinion, as consummate professionals back in England. Now there was an entirely new, and entirely _colossal_ , audience to satisfy.

"Apart from the _money_ " she cracks, "Our main motivation in creating _The Sunday Show_ was to give an authentic voice to people our age. What do you think American kids watching the show will relate to most?"

Ed pushes his glasses along the bridge of his nose. He crosses his legs, composing himself just enough to appear eloquent. "I've heard a _rumor_ that there are queer kids living in this country" he nudges light-heartedly, "I'm not unique in the things I've had to go through. The self-hatred, the guilt, all of it. It's an awful part of life for so many of us."

"The alcoholism stemmed from guilt. There were other things that contributed to it". Ed gulps, Craig re-emerging on his peripheral. "But I never felt totally happy with myself, to begin with."

Erica absorbs every syllable. He'd been so scared to open up once. Now here he was, bearing his soul to a country that barely knew him.

"If kids like me watch the show and realize ' _Hey, I'm not alone_ ', then I've done my job. Just as I'm sure you feel the same way when you open up about your experiences as a non-white woman."

Erica considers mentioning that she too was one of those _queer kids_. She could imagine some of her co-workers back home screaming for her to reveal her bisexuality to garner some press attention. The prospect helps her make her mind up. She'd save it for another day, when she felt truly comfortable.

"Christ, this got serious very quickly" Ed exhales, "Quick! Say something funny!"

Erica fires finger guns at the camera lens. "If the viewers want to hear something funny, they'll have to tune into our show. Sundays at 9, exclusively on _NBC_."

* * *

John had managed to unearth one of the few stalwarts of the L.A. disco scene still standing. Amidst a sea of hard rock and R&B clubs was an underground getaway for classic soul fans. His pals from Chic had first turned him onto the venue, boasting about its expansive dance floor. It was one of the few parts of the city John enjoyed.

Bopping about on stage, bass in hand, was one thing. Busting out a proper move, with the right partner, was another. One of his lesser mentioned pleasures, not guilty in the slightest.

_Headin' for the islands_

_We're ready man and packed to go_

The DJ was clearly yearning for the previous decade. Erica hadn't heard a Boney M record play at a club for years.

_When we hit those islands_

_There's gonna be a big hello_

She's peacefully moving to the beat when John catches her by the hand. Gracefully he spins her, steadying her in a firm hold just before she rotates off the dance floor.

_Headin' for the islands_

_Yeah we're really flyin' high_

"Makes me think of Bali" he purrs into her ear. He guides her through the crowd, confident in every step. He tightens his grip on her waist, dipping her low. Erica gasps, feeling her hair brush the illuminated tiles below. She lets herself be pulled back up, finding herself face-to-face with her lover. She fixes him with a passionate glare, lips parted. "Teach me."

John grins. It was one of the best things she'd ever said.

Erica picks the _Bump_ up easily. She wasn't _that_ young. The _Hustle_ follows. Then the _Frug_ , and the _Bus Stop_. She throws up the _YMCA_ to throw him off. John stumbles over his own sneakers at the sight, giggling boyishly.

"You're quite the cool cat, aren't you?" Erica jests, pulling him back to her.

John wiggles his eyebrows, adopting his best John Travolta voice. "You know it, babydoll."

* * *

Georgia enjoyed hearing about her parents' outing. She understood little of it but seemed relatively enthralled. With a mix of confusion and amusement, she'd watched the couple bust out their finest moves. Erica could imagine her being embarrassed by such displays when she was older.

Their daughter slipped into a tranquil slumber. Ed nodded off not long after, having yawned his way through the Deacons' disco anecdotes.

The volume on the record player turned down low so as not to wake the other occupants up, they continued their dancing in the sitting room. Chaka Khan provided a funky soundtrack. Erica was growing more confident in her motions. Truly, she didn't care what she looked like. Whatever she did, John gazed at her. She always the most captivating person in the room to him.

"Moments like this, I forget how we could ever fight" she says, pressing herself against his lithe form.

”We should dance more often” John utters. His eyes dart to her lips, but he holds off. Wanted to make her wait.

They sway a little longer, never letting go of one another, humming along here and there.

Lost in an intimate pose, Erica asserts herself. One hand held steady on his shoulder, she allows the other to drift. She toys with the buttons of his shirt, always tearing herself away before they could loosen completely.

She removes the pressure she’d been applying to his hips with her own, replacing it with coy touches.

The bass line on the record dips. Erica slips delicate fingers beneath the waist band of his jeans. With each note she got nearer, and nearer still. She leans close to his ear, smirking when she hears his breath catch in his throat.

”Is there anything else you’d like to teach me, Habibi?”

The needle on the record player scratches. The disc stops rotating.

Erica feels a rough hand slink down to her behind. John looms over her, glancing over her shoulder, toward the back wall. He presses his lips to hers hard, easing her backward, the willingness with which her mouth opened for him making him curse.

Broken buttons clatter down on the polished floorboards as John rips his wife’s blouse open. Erica laughs breathlessly, bathing in his reaction to what lay underneath. She’d neglected to wear a bra. _How remiss_.

She works up a vigorous rhythm with her dominant hand, the fabric of his boxer shorts smooth on her skin. She wriggles out of her skirt. If the evening chill bit at all, she didn’t notice. She was too enthralled by the hungry lips worshipping her chest.

She takes the initiative again, turning to press her hands against the back wall, perking her bottom up cheekily. A clear instruction.

John shakes the his jeans off quicker than anything. He throws his underwear into the same heap as hers. He braces himself against her, already cycling through all-too-familiar mind games in an effort to _last_.

“Fucking _hell_.”

Every muscle twitching with energy, he aims a slap at her behind. Erica whimpers, intoxicated on a cocktail of burgeoning sensations at her core. “Do it again” she asks. He obeys, harder this time. “ _Again_.”

Together they seek out a fast pace. Erica digs her nails into the plaster of the wall, stars bursting behind her eyelids. She’s certain she’ll tear great chunks out of it before long, her husband hitting every spot just right.

“Touch yourself.”

Erica moans. He repeats the suggestion, letting her know she _had_ heard him right.

From where he positioned himself, John couldn’t see what she was doing. He did see her hand diving down to her front. Studied every twitch she gave as she moved her fingers, noted every noise she made, the sweetest of songs.

“ _Habibi_.”

Inadvertently John ups his tempo. Even while she faced the other way, he could tell she was smiling, ragged and wild.

She knew exactly what she was doing. Making him unravel came naturally to her.

“I’m going to-“

”With me, Habibi.”

He presses her right against the brick, hand wrapped about the back of her neck. Erica chokes out a groan, reaching back to grasp his behind, egging him on just that little bit further.

The end is fierce and brilliant and loud.

“Good _God_ ” Erica breathes. Her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. Somehow she steadies herself, John resting his cheek on the smooth of her back.

They stay there, exposed and raw, until their lungs recover.

” _Well_.”

Dazed, Erica just about manages to make out a red-headed figure standing several feet away.

Ed, poking his nose from the shelves of the refrigerator. He holds a bowl in his hand, already filled with cereal. He blinks hard, as if just realizing the couple were present.

”This is awkward” he acknowledges, “Awkward and slightly _hot_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d love to interact with you guys more! Feel free to share any and all thoughts below :)


	29. It's A Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Work on The Miracle draws to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Miracle video!  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2DaY8-Mui0I
> 
> The Scandal video!  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VMO3YNoNyTY

A little boy tugs at Erica's pants, trailing a bass guitar in his wake. "Excuse me," he says, "Would you help me with this?"

Erica starts. He was small, no older than fourteen or so, and dressed _exactly_ like John, in colorful shorts and a baggy t-shirt. She's suddenly aware of how spaced out she must have been over the last few minutes. Other doppelgangers appear.

A miniature Roger takes his place behind the drums. Brian's mini-me emerges with an exact replica of Red Special. Freddie's clone already had the attitude down. He strode on set with the most confident air, holding himself perfectly. He hops up and down on the spot, a brief warm-up, exactly as Fred always did.

Erica crouches down to the child version of John. She takes the bass by the strap and gently lifts it over his head. "There you go" she smiles, "Ready to rock the world now."

The boy grins cheerfully. He wobbles beneath the weight of the guitar. Erica steadies him. "Thanks" he blushes, embarrassed, "I'm James". He holds a hand out politely.

She shakes it gladly. "Erica."

"Oh, I know. My mom sometimes lets me stay up to watch your show" James beams.

Erica chuckles. "Your mom has good taste."

"She puts her hands over my ears during the sweary bits" the child clarifies.

Freddie steps out onto the set, having been freed from the makeup station. He clutches his heart at the sight of his little doppelganger. The child seems startled at first, all pretense vanishing in the presence of someone so _great_. Sensing the boy's anxiety, Freddie strikes a pose, the sawn-off microphone he held raised aloft triumphantly.

Little Freddie copies. He falters in his poise a little, eyes darting intermittently toward the singer to ensure his placement was spot-on. Freddie bows to him gracefully. "We should send you on tour" he remarks.

His tribute relaxes. The pair rehearse their poses together, cackling and acting silly.

“Would you like some tips?” Erica invites.

James nods enthusiastically.

“The main thing is to wiggle around a lot” she advises, "Wobble your head about."

James moves his head eagerly, hair bouncing. "Like that?"

"Exactly!"

John approaches with a grin, having observed the imitation of him from afar. James blinks nervously up at the man, hold on the guitar's fretboard suddenly quite unsure.

"Would you like to learn anything?" John invites, paternal instincts kicking in, "There's loads of amps backstage. We could plug in before the cameras start rolling."

James' face lights up. "Do you know Another One Bites the Dust?" he asks sweetly. Erica giggles behind her hand. _Bless the lad_. John bites back his own amusement, not wanting the boy to feel embarrassed. "I know it."

"Great!" Without being prompted, James clutches his bass to his chest and darts off the stage. He disappears between the wings, presumably looking for the amplifiers he'd been told existed. The video's director throws his hands up in the air defeatedly. Casting children came with predictable setbacks.

Based on its concept alone, Erica knew the _Miracle_ video would rank among her favorites. Queen getting the _Big_ treatment. And of course, it was a fantastic track. She'd missed its recording, being so busy elsewhere, but Brian had passed a copy to her. Lyrically, it was _stunning_. One of the most beautiful things Freddie and John had ever crafted together.

"They're doing the final edits on the _Scandal_ video" John informs his wife.

Erica clasps her hands together excitedly. "Oh, I can't wait."

Another song that had excited her. Brian's inspiration was obvious. The last few years especially had seen particularly fraught interactions between the band and the press. First, there'd been John's affair with Erica splashed all over the papers. Then Brian's with Anita. And more recently, heartless speculation over Freddie's health.

The accompanying music video had required a female actress. After Debbie's appearance in _Breakthru_ , John had petitioned for his own partner to appear. He'd been slightly anxious when the nature of the role was revealed. Erica wasn't. It was enough for her to even _be_ in a video.

She played the anonymous lover at the very start, seductively rolling her stockings down. Ed played her scandalous beau, appearing in a brief scene in which the pair fended off hordes of reporters as they left a building.

"Maybe we can make our own version one evening" Erica quips playfully.

John grins. He slips a hand into her back pocket, cheeks tinting a delightful pink. "Managed to get a reservation for The Ivy next week" he reveals, "Booked our favorite table". The attention to detail earns him an affectionate kiss.

Erica's almost decided on what meal she'll order when a thought hits her. Her expression falters. So does her husband's. He knew _that_ look all too well. "Oh, God" he groans, " _What_?"

"I told work I'd be in _all day_ " she admits, avoiding his eye-line. He withdraws his hand from her pocket and steps back a few feet. It stings, seeing him move away from her, fingers scratching irritably at his stubbled cheek. "It's our _wedding anniversary_ " John grumbles.

"I know" Erica contests. She'd never forget that date, no matter how senile she grew in later years. "I'll do what I can to-"

" _Do what you can_ " he mumbles, turning away pointedly.

"My job isn't as flexible as yours."

"Well, seeing as you and Ed always make such a point about how in control you are, I figured I might get a look in."

Ed looks up from his cell phone at the mention of his name. He'd been in his own universe, scrolling through the considerable list of calls he'd had over the last few days. He could do that now. Cells were finally getting _lighter,_ too. His new one fit into his pocket perfectly. The antennae was smaller. It even had a cover that flipped over the number pads.

It had been used a lot. Even though they saw enough of one another at the BBC, Tom called him often. He was the most attentive boyfriend Ed had ever had.

"They're going through it again I see" Roger notes, nodding toward the Deacons. They'd ceased squabbling again, one of them having said something rather _lovey-dovey_ , and were back to gazing into each other's eyes.

Ed doesn't regard the drummer at first. Just keeps his focus on the endless times the name _Tom Reed_ appeared on his cell's screen. "They have their moments" he concedes eventually. He wouldn't reveal exactly what it had been like sharing a house with them while in L.A. They hadn't had many disagreements. No, they'd enjoyed themselves _considerably_. What he hadn't accidentally walked in on, he'd heard through the bedroom wall.

"They love each other" Ed says, wanting to stick up for his friend.

Roger doesn't take his eyes off the other man, hoping in vain he might look his way. Smile a little. "So did we" he breathes. Finally, Ed meets his gaze. There's no smile, though. No sorrow, either, _anything_ that might suggest their breakup still played on his mind. Doesn't even offer Roger a polite farewell. He just walks to the edge of the set and dials another man's number.

* * *

The day of the Deacons' second wedding anniversary arrived, and John woke alone.

He finds himself surprised. The feeling catches him off guard. He hadn't gone to bed feeling particularly pissed off, but as he shut his eyes he'd reminded himself that his wife likely wouldn't be there when morning came. She'd be at the office as usual. Any hopes he had that their America trip would make her realize how valuable family time was were as yet unfulfilled.

"Looks like it's me and you" John sighs, holding his daughter securely. George babbles to him sleepily as he makes his way down the staircase. "What shall we have for breakfast?"

He'd avoid his usual healthy option of cereal. One of those fruity, grainy type things supposedly packed with nutrients. No, the older children's chocolate-flavored cereals would do the trick. Some early-hour comfort food. And there was no reason to eat lightly, was there? Erica probably wouldn't make their dinner reservation.

John's halfway through his second bowl of cocoa rocks when he hears an engine growl on the driveway. George jumps at the noise in her seat. She drops the plastic spoon she'd been using to hack at her oatmeal, bottom lip quivering precariously. Her father attends to her first, scooping her into his arms, rubbing soothing patterns into her back.

A crying fit held off for now, John peers through the blinds. An engine revs again. Grey exhaust fumes float by the window. Presumably, Erica had already taken her car, and his other kids knew better than to mess around in the garage. So what was it?

He steps out to investigate, toddler clutched to him.

" _Erica_?"

A gust of wind parts the fumes, revealing his wife to him. "Just a second!" she entreats. She darts into the open garage and returns carrying a hefty red bow. She sticks it neatly on her gift. "I remembered how in love you seemed when we passed that dealers in L.A" Erica introduces.

Jaw open, John steps barefoot onto the gravel.

Awaiting him was a _Harley-Davidson_ , black and smooth and _shining_. He'd looked on rather jealously whenever a biker had whizzed passed them during their stay in California, handsome in their leather and their Doc Marten boots. The kind of men who'd hung about the Whisky a Go Go while Erica was there, desperately trying to flirt with her or made her laugh. A keen tinkerer, motorbikes had always fascinated him anyway.

Now _he_ had one. _He_ could be the cool guy in leather.

"Happy anniversary, Habibi" Erica beams, stepping back to let her husband admire his new toy. She gently takes George from him when she realizes how stunned he is.

Numbly, John strokes the leather seat. "Erica, this is amazing."

He kisses her fondly. Then again, longer this time. He hadn’t expected to find her. He’d grumbled to himself so bitterly about her being swept up in meetings.

But she’d been at home, getting his present ready.

"Check the compartment under the seat” Erica invites.

John does as instructed. He finds plane tickets inside, stamped for the following month. A flight to Bali for the pair of them, and little George too.

"Thank you. _Really_ , thank you.”

The little family huddle together. George watches, curious when her parents’ lips meet again. She pats them both on their heads with chubby fists, a warning for them to start paying attention to her or suffer her wrath.

"I’m sorry I’m not always the perfect wife” Erica speaks, resting her forehead against his, “Or the perfect mother-“

"You’re perfect to me” John answers.

She wasn't. Erica believed that wholeheartedly. It didn't always affect her. After all, what the fuck _was_ the perfect wife? Or the perfect mother? But then she'd be hit by 'what ifs'. _What if_ she did work a little less? _What if_ she was always home on time? Would things be a little easier?

"I don't think you'll ever know how much I love you" she hears him whisper. He kisses his daughter's cheek when she starts to pine again. "How much I love you both."

George is happy with that, giggling to herself with a toothy smile.

"I tried to book the beach hut, too, but they told me they sold it to someone" Erica voices, barely hearing herself speak her heart pounded so fast, and the commentary in her head asking how she ever got so lucky as to meet John.

"I know. I'm the one who bought it."

" _What_?"

"Happy anniversary."

She watches, dazed, as he steps into the house. He holds a small, neatly-wrapped box when he re-emerges on the drive. She'd unintentionally spotted it in a kitchen cupboard several days previously. Her nosier side had begged to know what lay within. Erica was glad she'd resisted.

Inside was a pair of keys, familiar in her palm. The same pair handed over by the beach hut's owners when they'd visited Bali. It was _theirs_ now, open to them whenever they wanted.

"I don't know what to say" she breathes, her vision of him blurring. She flinches when a tear rolls past her eyelashes, leaving a sharp, raw trail over her cheek. "Why don't we go over there?"

John's eyes light up with all the memories they had of that place. "What, right now?"

"Just run away. Like we always do."

He bows his head. "Perhaps not". He rubs his wife's chin with his thumb. " _Soon_ , though."

Erica nods. Truly, it didn't matter when they went. Only that they would find themselves on that gorgeous beneath again before long.

" _Soon_."

Attention returns to the stunning Harley-Davidson. "How about a ride?" John invites, brows cocking assuredly.

Erica nuzzles her face into the cozy fabric of his sweater. "I _do_ look pretty devastating in leather."

His eldest, Robert, pokes his head out of the open front door. Still in his pajamas, he dashes over to the motorbike. "Dad! This is so cool!" he hails, hopping up onto the seat. John steadies the boy, wary of him falling off. Her brother suddenly taking an interest in the machine, George sticks her arms out, grappling hopelessly toward the handlebars.

Carefully Erica sets her down in Robert's lap. The older boy holds her close, mimicking gravely motorbike sounds to make her laugh.

"Can I take it out?" he pleads, appealing to his father and step-mother with hopeful eyes, "I'll be careful, I swear."

"When you're older, mate" John promises. Robert's shoulders sag a little, a petulant groan escaping his lips. Soon enough he's back to pretending, navigating imaginary streets only he and little George could see. The 'brakes' screech when the pair narrowly avoid trampling an old woman.

The children occupied, John snakes an arm around her waist. His fingers rest at her hip, dancing disobediently with the hem of her cardigan. Studying every inch of his new bike with boyish engrossment, he puts on what his wife assumes is an impression of a '50s Greaser. "So, you goin' my way, babydoll?"

Erica snorts. Bless him for trying. Her own accent wasn't much better. "I'll go whichever way you're going, Daddy-o."

Robert rolls his eyes, and shouts back into the house. "Guys, Dad and Erica are being gross again."

* * *

Awestruck, Anita grapples for a coherent sentence. Communicating clearly was ever-so-slightly vital in her line of work but in the face of such a performance, she was rendered speechless.

Brian had teased his song to her for some weeks. She'd witnessed its first playback, blasted about the video set while the boys prepared to appear on camera. The opening lyrics had elicited a gasp from her. She heard one of her favorite sayings repeated back to her, sung in powerful harmonies.

_I want it all_

_And I want it now_

"I think the hairs on the back of my neck might be singed" she jokes. Erica nods breathlessly. She'd not heard the song before, either. It boasted some of the best guitar work she'd ever heard. Loud and huge, making everyone within a ten-mile radius feel impossibly tall. Erica was sorry she didn't have something to march into work and complain about. She'd surely get her way with such an anthem echoing in her head.

Presumably sensing the women's amazement, Brian strides out onto the stage, countenance irritatingly humble. "So, what do you think?" he inquires.

Anita practically throws herself over him. "I think you might some kind of _god_ ," she says, pinching his cheek playfully.

Erica leaves them to it.

Roger bounds over to her soon enough, his sunglasses yet again fused to his face. The drummer had actually admitted one evening that they were _prescription_. Naturally, he'd mocked John for having ailing sight with his bandmate confessed to having problems with his sight too.

She finds a sonogram picture shoved into her hand. Printed along the top was Debbie's name. Amidst fuzzy shadows, a meager, white clump was visible. Roughly bean-shaped, and obviously very early in development, but oddly moving. She'd not viewed such a photo since her own scans while carrying George.

"I reckon its a boy" Roger chimes. He rubs the likeness of his unborn child with a gentle thumb as if stroking his cheek.

"He looks just like you" Erica quips. Roger strikes her on the forearm gently. Pleased, she watches him for a little while, silently concluding that he _was_ as happy as he seemed. He'd been sported a poorly built facade over recent weeks. Any cover he hoped to have had been blown by the frequency with which he asked after Ed. "You're really going for it, then. With Debbie I mean."

"She's great," Roger says, "I think we'll be really happy together."

He squirms childishly when the other woman pecks his cheek. "I'm glad."

Frankly, she'd been rooting for him and Ed. She'd been quite convinced they were an endgame pairing. Clearly, she was wrong. They were both in a good place with new partners. Life rolled along its usual path.

John and Freddie join the rest, dapper in straight pants and crisp shirts buttoned right up to the collar. Freddie swoops over to Brian. He threatens to strangle the guitarist with his tie when Red Special's neck bumps him on the behind.

"You look handsome" Erica compliments, inspecting the unique black pattern printed onto John's top. He'd let his curls grow out just a little. A pleasant mix of brown and grey topped his head, styled smartly. He was becoming accustomed to the rate at which his features matured. Erica thought he carried it off effortlessly. It _suited_ him, that charming 'older man' look.

Again, John's surprised to find her there. She reads him easily. "Finished work early," she tells him.

"Aren't you busy?" he suggests, bashful.

Mr. Reed had informed his star duo that the TV show had been renewed for another season. The new episodes would be shown in America at the same time as they were in Britain. Experiments were also being conducted elsewhere in Europe, tasters being shown to audiences all over the continent in an effort to gauge where else they might develop a following.

" _Very_ ," Erica sighs, jerking her head casually, "But I'd rather be with you."

She feels everything she needed in the look John gives her. Thankfulness, that she'd started to put his insecurities to bed. Bliss, because for all the fantastic things she and Ed achieved day-to-day, _he_ was the priority. Tranquility, now he was certain they could retire home together at the end of the shoot and enjoy a quiet evening with their family.

They cement the commitment with a kiss.

John's bandmates coo mockingly his way, a group of madcap boys until the last.

"Go on, Deaky" Roger praises.

John gives him the middle finger. He kisses his wife again though, teeth lingering on her bottom lip just long enough to leave her breathless. Erica lets him go. Watches him assume his position on the stage. He'd be hers again before long.

Despite everything, he was _always_ hers. The bickering be damned.

Jim observes his own love. He knots his fingers together with Erica's.

"We checked in with our doctor again yesterday," he says.

Erica tightens her grip on his hand, hoping her expression wouldn't betray her grief, shattering as it was. She'd promised Freddie she'd be strong. They all had.

"He's given Fred two years" Jim gulps.

Oblivious, Freddie lets his usual mischief unfurl. Roger was his latest target. With John, he conspires, whispering some puckish sentiment or other behind his hand. Roger squints, drum stick in hand, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

There was so much Erica wanted to say. _I'm sorry_ , above all. Jim was going to lose a husband and there was nothing she could do about it. Then she remembers Fred. His boundless optimism. The strength he displayed every day, in the face of what he knew was a death sentence.

"Well, then" she declares, pressing her lips to the back of Jim's hand, "We'd better make these the best two years of his damn life."


	30. The BRITS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's February 1990!
> 
> The band accepts an award. A series of controversies threatens Ed and Erica's domination at the BBC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains Jim and Fred content, Erica and John content and, my personal favorite, _Roger and Ed content_

"Oh my _God_."

Brian wrenches his head off the grass, eyes widening. He glances to his companion's middle, then her face, searching for some hint of unexpected pain. John had only let him take her stargazing on the basis that he be extra vigilant. “I can’t talk her out of going” he’d said, “But if she catches so much as a cold in that park, I’ll murder you.”

Erica was fine. Safe from the February chill and heavily insulated in the thick winter jacket she wore.

" _Venus_!“ she points out, reaching out toward the darkened sky.

The planet shines through the city smog, a small but dazzling pinprick amongst far-off stars. With Brian as he guide, Erica had become rather familiar with astronomy. Even in London, there was ample opportunity to appreciate the worlds beyond. At the very least, the heavens were a distraction, somewhere for onlookers to escape to when Earth didn't seem so appealing.

And _God knows_ , the gang needed distractions lately.

"Very cool lady, Venus" Brian offers, settling back onto the ground.

"Why else would Bananarama sing about her?" Erica agrees. Being a member of Bananarama was a dearest wish of hers. That or The Bangles.

“The goddess of beauty and love” Brian affirms, “Fertility too.”

Erica strokes her stomach. “I’ll have to have a stern word with her.”

The car waiting on the street behind the park sounds it’s horn. The stargazers had heard it pull up to the sidewalk a good ten minutes ago, but not bothered to make their way over to it.

Brian sighs, casting one last wistful glance up at the stars. He hops to his feet, lowering the zipper of his coat to reveal a tuxedo. He straightens out the lapels, and checks the bow tie to ensure it’s still intact.

"Help me up” Erica requests, stretching her arms out toward him.

Brian pulls her up gently. He offers her an arm to lean on as they make their way over to the park gate.

Erica glances down at the chunky sneakers she wore. She’d have to trade them in for high heels once they all arrived at the venue. She’d contemplated leaving the sneakers on, but she wanted to savor _some_ dignity, no matter how uncomfortable she became.

She’d been given the most gorgeous black evening dress for the occasion by a chic designer working on the city's trendy underbelly. It’d had to undergo some changes to accommodate her bump.

 _Five months pregnant_. The Deacons had enjoyed themselves a little _too_ carelessly when they escaped to Bali last September.

Erica didn’t enjoy pregnancy any more than she had with George, as in love as she was with her daughter. The others provided the enthusiasm she was lacking, of course.

Freddie was _very_ sick, worryingly frail. A new baby was a light in the darkness.

”You okay, love?” John asks, swooping down on her protectively, “You look pale.”

Erica rolls her eyes but accepts the warm cuddles he offers. “Yes, I’m practically _white,_ ” she says sarcastically.

John kisses her knuckles, lips hot on her skin.

"You’re wearing the tie I bought you” Erica notices, patting the knot of it fondly. It looked good, sat atop his navy shirt. The suit was black.

She suspected the others had opted for black so as to help Freddie in standing out. The singer had shown her his BRITS outfit earlier in the week: a pale blue suit, complete with a stylish white scarf.

"We all ready then?”

The stargazers nod. Brian scurries over to open the passenger side door for Erica.

"Have you got a speech ready?” she asks the guitarist once they’re all settled inside.

Brian had been nominated by the others to say a few words on stage.

"I’ve got something” he answers, “What about you and Ed?”

Erica snickers. “We’re not going to win anything.”

* * *

"And the award for Best British Broadcaster goes to-“ Annie Lennox tears the envelope open, and pulls out a plain, white card. “Ed Tetley and Erica Salib.”

The pair suddenly find a spotlight fixed on them. The other attendees get to their feet, applauding. They remain in their seats, stunned. John, fresh off the stage after receiving his own award with the band, helps his wife up. Tom prods his boyfriend to collect the prize. He was still their boss and was very insulating where their successes were concerned.

Tenderly, Ed takes Erica's hand. Together they swerve through the rows of theatre seating. The stage lights blind them. They could barely make out the audience for the intense white glow aimed their way. The applause dies down, and with gleaming statuettes in their hands, they hover, clueless as to how to accept.

"Well, this is a shock," Ed remarks, drawing chuckles from all around. The shock brought the heavy Yorkshire tones of his accent right out. "I suppose we'd better keep it brief. So, naturally, I'd like to thank each of my family members one by one-"

Erica joins in with the laughter. She was one of the few who knew how desperately he actually despised his family.

"But really" Ed speaks, the abrupt severity of his tone pulling all onlookers right into the palm of his hand, "We often feel like we weren't meant to make it in this business. They've been a few people along the way who've taken one look at my sexuality, and Erica's skin color, and decided we weren't worth the hassle". Mr. Michaels had been their greatest foe in that regard. Of course, that was to make no mention of the obsessive machinations of _Matt_. "I dunno. Holding this award just feels like a massive _fuck you_ to those people."

"And we could do with a lot more of that in our industry."

The attendees clap and whistle. Ed bows to his co-host, keen to allow her a moment.

Erica studies the trophy in her arms curiously, taken aback by every detail. "Ed's put it quite eloquently already. He's a good lad, really. Shame he's _ginger_ " she begins. Despite all the amused faces looking her way, its John she focuses on most, difficult to see in the on-stage glare but just visible enough to comfort her. "I couldn't give less of a toss about some fancy trinket I get to put on my mantelpiece. It's a _conversation piece_ , certainly, but-"

She waits for everyone to settle down again. "If there are kids like me watching at home, I hope this proves to you that you _can_. And I don't just say that as the daughter of an immigrant". She takes a deep breath. Ed slips his hand back into hers, squeezing tightly. "I say that as a bisexual woman."

John's first on his feet, putting his hands together with such force she's certain he'll bruise his palms. Past the many rows, he blows a kiss, and a look that says ' _that's my wife right there_ '

"I think now I'll just pose so the tabloids get a good photo to put alongside all the articles about my coming out" Erica cracks. She beckons Ed over for a victorious shot. The pair hold their awards aloft, excitement exaggerated. Ed screams ridiculously for good measure.

Content, blessed by a congratulatory kiss from Annie Lennox, they weave their way back toward their seats.

Erica catches a glimpse of Freddie in the stage wings just as she's descending the steps. He applauds gently. It was his smile that truly caught her. Kind, and understanding, and _proud_. He'd been sat gathering his strength backstage when last she saw him. He must have made his way over when he heard their names called.

" _I love you, darling_ " the singer mouths.

Erica attempts in vain to disguise her tears. She was grateful she only had to mime the words and not speak them aloud. " _I love you too, Freddie_."

* * *

' _A TWENTY YEAR MONOPOLY_ '

Stomach grumbling, Freddie cuts into the words iced on the cake. It was a shame to destroy the decorations, he thought. Someone had ordered the band a delicious and rather large sponge in the likeness of a Monopoly board. _Still_ , he was really very hungry. He serves himself a generous slice and one more for Jim.

Brian helps himself to a chunk. He scoops himself a large clump of frosting, claiming his slice didn't have enough on it. "I wonder if this is vegan" he ponders.

Roger groans petulantly. "God, you're a bore sometimes". He taunts the guitarist with the cake, oblivious to the fact Brian was eating it regardless.

Erica pokes a fork at her own helping. "I'm with him," she says, "I can barely even _think_ about meat at the moment."

A particular pregnancy-induced revulsion of hers. She'd never been particularly enamored with meat, anyway. With another baby cooking, though, the mere smell of the stuff reduced her to frenzied vomiting. John had sworn to go vegetarian. He claimed the sausage roll wrappers stuffed in the family car's glove-box were nothing to do with him.

Her husband re-emerges after an impassioned foray at the buffet cart. Erica could almost _sense_ the traces of the chicken-infused vol-au-vents he'd scoffed down in the other room. "I'm _really_ proud of you" he beams, stroking her cheek with his thumb fondly.

"I'm proud of you too, Habibi."

It had been a successful evening for both of them.

Queen had been recognized by the BRITS for their _outstanding contribution to British music_. They each had a statuette to take home. Never the darlings of the musical establishment, the band wasn't very interested in awards. It felt _good_ though, to see two decades of hard work commemorated at last.

Brian had given the acceptance speech as arranged, humble, and witty as normal. The other three had stood at his heel, none of them hiding in any way.

Freddie had been slightly apprehensive before marching out under the stage lights. Jim had told him how handsome he looked in his lovely blue suit, but a brief glimpse at his reflection in one of the camera monitors had made him hesitate.

There'd be headlines the following morning. Freddie was _frail_. And quite obviously grappling with something serious.

"The cats can use it as a scratching post" he implies, passing his award over to his husband.

Jim marvels at the token, awestruck as ever by his partner's talent. "No, love" he contends, "We'll put it somewhere it can be admired. Somewhere I can see it and be reminded of how special you are."

Freddie opens his mouth to sass him, to dismiss his soppiness. Instead, he kisses his husband, long and sweet, out of view of the cameras.

"I hope no one pressured you into saying what you did" John cautions, momentarily tearing himself away from his wife's burgeoning baby bump, "I know what that Tom is like."

Submerged in the slightly more professional side of the after-party, Mr. Reed talks animatedly with one of his associates. Ed was left some feet away, swarmed by admirers. He didn't seem impressed by any of them, at least from where Erica stood.

"It just slipped out" Erica expresses. She'd felt rather winded when she first realized she'd _come out_. Then the relief had kicked in, an enormous weight vanishing off her shoulders. "We make quite the power couple, don't we?"

John chuckles bashfully. "Yes, I suppose we do."

The wrinkles around his eyes fold cutely when he spots the buffet cart over her shoulder. Erica sends him on his way with a peck on the cheek, not feeling very hungry herself. "Go on then". He darts off, fixated on the nibbles he so enjoyed. "Stuff what you can in your pockets. Our refrigerator's looking a little sparse."

Ed watches the couple from afar, burying the pangs of jealousy he felt. Tom was busy elsewhere, and the incessant well-wishers who surrounded him, desperate to get a glimpse of his award, were wearing him out.

Roger ditches his bomber jacket before he makes his way over. He rolls his shirt sleeves up for good measure, a deliberate effort to appear _casual_ and _cool_. Not that he thought he could compete with his former flame on that front.

Ed had opted for the kind of baggy suits that were becoming all the rage. The surgery he'd had on his eyes removed his need for glasses. He'd been _handsome_ for as long as he'd known him. In a recent article, though, the younger man had been described as _sex on legs_. The author wasn't wrong. He looked _that_ damn good.

"Well done, mate" he commends, "Much deserved."

Ed starts at first. He'd fallen out of practice with the drummer. "It is, isn't it?" he replies cockily.

Roger isn't offended by his arrogance. He loved it. A worthy match for his own vanity. "Maybe in twenty years, you'll get your own special recognition award."

Ed grimaces. "I'll be _forty-eight_ then" he realizes. He combs his fashionably styled auburn locks to make sure they're still there.

"And I'll be _sixty-one_."

The drummer shivers. He and Ed had managed to salvage something of a friendship over the last few months, though it was distant. Where would they be in twenty years? Still talking? Maybe they'd have recovered from their respective problems by then. _Learned to enjoy the closeness of old_.

"Do you think you'll still be drumming at that age?"

"If I'm able to."

Ed sips on his sparkling water. Sobriety suited him. "Best make the most of all that wrist strength while you can" he flirts. He turns away to mask his surprise. The words had quite literally slipped out. Roger doesn't respond. He just gulps, alarm bells feverishly dusting themselves off. A flirtation of his own dances on his tongue, just as Tom separates from his group.

"What's in there?" he questions, tearing the glass from his boyfriend's hand. He sniffs at its contents.

"I think they call it sparkling water" Ed retorts. He reclaims the glass and takes a long sip. "That's the third time tonight you've done that."

"Just looking out for you, sweetheart."

Roger backs off. Tom made his presence known, clinging to the younger man's side. Securely he holds his waist, in a way that absolutely couldn't be misinterpreted in a platonic way. As clingy as he seemed, the drummer was glad the couple was still together. They were stable. Everything he and Ed had never been.

He enjoyed his own domestic bliss with Debbie, and an infant son too.

"How is the little one?" Ed asks, keen to keep the man around just a little longer.

"Running us ragged. He's the most energetic little tyke. Drives you quite mad sometimes."

Ed beams, imagining a miniature version of the drummer, all big blue eyes and floppy blonde hair, crawling about the couple's home, causing mischief wherever he went.

"We've been talking about adopting" Tom pipes up, reinserting his presence in the conversation. He knew very little about the Taylor household, nor the households of any of the other band members, so felt out of the loop. Ed chokes on his drink. "That's years off yet" he argues.

Tom doesn't hear him. Just looks to Roger, a brow raised. Roger stares right back. "Probably best to make sure you've found the right person before committing to something like raising a kid" he swipes.

Tom glares. Ed's expression is difficult to read. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies Debbie, only half-focused on the chat she had with another artist. He takes his exit, slightly awkward but quick.

"See you around, Tetley" he murmurs, spotting Brian and Anita pleading for a rescue amidst the throng. Debbie pauses her anecdote so she can overhear exactly what her partner says to the other man.

Ed turns on his heel, a hopeful glimmer in his eye. "Will I?"

Roger gulps. He hadn't expected a response. " _I hope so_."

* * *

John drives steadily, slowly. No matter how recklessly those around him steered, he didn't slam the brakes, didn't hit the horn. Erica was far from worn out, but she wasn't entirely comfortable. Carrying a child was no more a picnic the second time around.

"Did I tell you I’m proud of you?”

"You did” Erica smiles, “But I like hearing it again.”

He leaves his hand on her knee after giving it a squeeze. "You should be proud too" she voices, his touch eliciting a slight shiver. The leather coating of the steering wheel was as cold as the bitter outdoors. "You've worked hard these last twenty years."

John catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. "You'd never think it looking at me" he jokes.

For the youngest member of the band, he'd aged the quickest. He was stressed. _Worn-out_ , sometimes physically, but almost always emotionally. Freddie's health seemed to hit him the hardest out of all of them. He loved Fred dearly, like an older brother. The realization that he'd have to say goodbye someday, perhaps soon, was too difficult to process.

"You're a _silver fox_ " Erica grins.

John snorts. "A _what_ now?" He knew exactly what it meant. He just wanted to hear her explain it. To listen to her describe why she found his grey hairs and wrinkles attractive.

"A handsome _older gentleman_ " she coos, tongue-in-cheek, "The sort _hot young things_ like myself go wild for". Her smirk widens when she notices him blush. He refocuses his attention on the busy roads, jaw clenched just enough for her to know she was in his head.

He reinforces the hold he has on her knee. "You _are_ hot."

Erica cackles. She flattens the middle of her dress down to her bump. "Even when I'm the size of a small planet?" She envied the women who developed a _pregnancy glow_. There was nothing miraculous about carrying children, in her opinion. They were a delight once they arrived, but a pain to grow.

John's hand travels just a few inches northward. " _Especially_ when you're the size of a small planet". He licks his lips, tongue resting just shy of the little gap between his teeth. Erica narrows her eyes, fist resting under her chin inquisitively.

"Ronnie said you had a _breeding thing_."

The car swerves. John regains control, redder than ever. "Why would she say that?" he splutters. He hadn't realized his ex-wife was that close to Erica. He'd always heard the jokes about how women ' _liked to talk_ ' but had dismissed it as stereotyping. "It's true, isn't it? I did think it while I was carrying George but-"

" _Behave_ " he warns. His hand moves again, now resting on her inner thigh.

Erica flicks her curls over her shoulder, exposing the skin there. Somewhere he might like to ravish if he was so inclined. She glances at his lap, smirking. He seemed eager. _God_ , she was evil.

"I'm not shaming you, Habibi" she purrs, "You take good care of me. Make me and my bump feel beautiful. God, and the _massages_ you give. Such talented fingers."

John clears his throat loudly. He glances into his rearview mirror, searching for anything that might distract him. Anything that might the intense need bubbling in him. He considers putting his foot down on the accelerator, so they might reach home quicker. Then he could pull her inside and not let her go until he was finished with her.

"And the baths we share when I get _really_ swollen" Erica rattles on, wetting her plump red lips, batting her lashes at her husband sweetly. "Makes me want to get pregnant again, and again-"

With a sharp jolt to the left, the car darts off the main street and down a quiet, dimly-lit road. John pulls right up to the sidewalk and switches the ignition off.

"John, what are you-"

With remarkable grace for a man on the brink, he lifts her off her seat and into his lap, somehow manoeuvering his car seat backward at the same time, allowing ample room between her and the steering wheel. He tackles the heavy skirts of her gown with less finesse, practically clawing at the velvet, searching for an opening.

Erica kicks her heels off onto the dashboard and settles her knees either side of his thighs, wriggling on top of him. She gasps when a hand finds its way beneath her dress, calloused pads tiptoeing along the hem of her panties. "I've got my granny knickers on" she giggles. They were the only kind that lent her any comfort now she was in her second trimester.

"I like them" John compliments. The sentiment comes with such adorable sincerity that Erica almost falls apart at the seams when he asks her to suck his fingers seconds later. She obliges, head falling back when he dives them back between her legs.

Steadying herself on his shoulders, she eases into the patterns he draws, nimble and quick. She grinds down on his crotch hard, desperate for friction. Winding him up was working out just as she'd hoped so far. "John?" she whines. He brushes his lips from her collarbone to the sharp lines of her jaw, to her lips. Erica bites his bottom lip hard, demanding his attention before he got lost in her arms again. "Need you."

"Hmm?"

 _Cheeky bastard_. He'd heard her perfectly. " _Need you_ ". Erica bucks her hips against his fingers, her own struggling to get a grip on his belt buckle.

"I don't think so."

John ups his tempo. Limbs trembling, Erica reaches out blindly. One arm finds the steamed-up window on the driver's side. The other wraps around her husband's neck, nails digging into the supple skin of his neck. "You're evil" she curses.

"Can't always been cute and innocent, can I?" he derides, blinking pretty grey eyes up at her as though he wasn't doing something totally wicked. Erica feels her eyes roll into the back of her skull. God knew what she looked like, panting and sweating as she did. John adored the sight. Enjoyed himself as much as she did.

"Oh, _shit_."

He smiles to himself, acutely aware of the furious tightening at the front of his trousers. She yelps again. Perhaps she was enjoying herself a little more than he was.

" _Oh, shit_."

John nips at his wife's neck, savoring every sound. The cry rings a little differently now. Low, hollow. "No, John, _look_."

 _Too late_.

There's an impatient tap on the window, followed by the glow of a flashlight. The couple looks to one another, stunned, waiting for the other to roll down the window. Breath still ragged, Erica does the honors.

"Alright, kids, break it up" the officer bellows, pointing the flashlight right at them. He does a double-take. "Oh, er-"

"Can we help you?" Erica poses. She doesn't move from John's lap. John doesn't remove his fingers. They had every intention of carrying on once they were alone again.

The cop blinks hard. "Well, um-". His eyes widen. "Wait, you're-" Proud illusions are cast aside. "My wife's a big fan."

John buries his face to his wife's chest, burying his laughter there.

"I like your wife," Erica says, "I'm sure she'd be very understanding of this situation."

The officer frowns. "Well, I don't think-" He hesitates, slipping a small notepad from his top pocket. "Actually, her birthday _is_ coming up."

Erica didn't like it, but she couldn't see any other way out. She didn't fancy the newspapers catching wind of her and John being caught up to no good like two hormonal teenagers. She takes the pen offered to her, and the notepad. "What's your wife's name?"

* * *

Ed and Tom cut a lovestruck pair.

They're caught in a passionate embrace when Erica bursts into the office. She'd knocked very lightly, too distracted by the pain in her ankles to care much. She dives right into a chair before she speaks, resting the balls of her feet on the carpet. She'd woken to find her ankles the size of tennis balls. Other parts of her were sore, too, a combination of the pregnancy and John's worshipping of her.

"Morning, Erica" Tom breathes airily, letting his boyfriend move over to his co-host. He watches the younger man's every movement, lost in a wistful haze. Ed snaps his fingers in his face impatiently. "Yes, _business_."

"I'm sorry to say I've received a complaint from upstairs."

Ed and Erica exchange bored looks. They were used to those words by now. As revered as they were by some in the company, they'd attracted a considerable number of detractors over recent months.

Tom pulls an ever-increasing file out from the top drawer of his desk. The other complaints. The list of supposed controversies the duo had endured was considerable, growing in length with every episode of theirs aired on television or radio.

Accidental cursing and less than impartial political remarks were commonplace. Their superiors at the BBC had grown used to such things. It was other incidents that made them uncomfortable.

First, a fight had broken out on the set of _The Sunday Show_. Strikes at the company had necessitated the need for a private lighting engineer. Erica had challenged the man's prickish attitude towards other crew members and found herself the subject of a racist tirade. Ed promptly knocked the engineer out cold.

Then there'd been an anonymous tip-off that prompted the authorities to search the studio for drugs. Erica had been made aware that she wasn't the only one on set with a modest interest in a _particular green leaf._ Months previously she'd stopped doing what little of it she did, already aware she was pregnant, but had still taken the fall.

Not long after, Metallica had done what Motley Crue had done to their dressing room back in '87, except they'd spread the chaos to the rest of the Radio 1 offices too. Ed made an offhand comment about the destruction, making it seem as though he'd incited it. He hadn't.

" _Communist blowhards_ was the phrase repeated to me" Tom shares.

"We should get that printed on t-shirts" Erica mocks.

Their boss tuts. "This isn't a joke. They're seriously pissed off with you two" he cautions.

Ed rolls his eyes. "Most of it isn't our fault". Tom narrows his eyes suspiciously. "I did say _most_ of it."

"You're not indestructible, you know."

Erica laughs humorlessly. "Oh, _we know_."

The press was all over her coming out. The revelation had unearthed their petty interest in Ed's sexuality too. Salacious bullshit followed. Interviews with supposed ex-lovers of theirs they'd never even heard of, exposing the imaginary crimes they were apparently guilty of. They'd found a way to drag John into it, suggesting her bisexuality invalidated their marriage somehow. He'd used the pages to mop up the milk George had spilled over breakfast, then tossed the rag right into the trash. "Where it belongs" he'd declared.

"I don't think they're going to tolerate another fuck-up" Tom warns. He ignores the scoff his boyfriend gives. "It doesn't matter how good for ratings you two are, one more complaint and you'll be off the air."

Like dutiful children, Ed and Erica nod.

Tom continues in his lecture. They only half listen. Throughout his ramblings, they look to one another, communicating without words. Almost telepathically they read the other's thoughts. Mischief played on their minds.

They didn't want to seek out another fuck-up. As much as they delighted in offending the uptight, endangering their success, and that of the crew around them, just wasn't worth the hassle.

But, _damn it_ , if it wasn't tempting...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHAT THEY'RE GOING TO DO
> 
> This is kind of how I imagine Erica's dress! https://deadlyisthefemale.com/shop/black-marilyn-gown/


	31. This is the BBC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The band head to Montreux to record new material. Ed and Erica break the rules for the final time. Roger tries his luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thatcher resigned as British PM in November of 1990, but I couldn't resist using it as another way for Ed and Erica to get in trouble. I hope you don't mind me twisting the dates!

Somberly, Erica and Ed take their places in front of the camera. Deliberately, they'd dressed as though attending a funeral. They'd elicited a chorus of nervous giggling from the audience when they first stepped on stage, this ordinarily sprightly pair suddenly behaving _seriously_.

"Obviously, news this week has been dominated by one thing in particular" Erica speaks, hands held reverently across her front, "We just wanted to reiterate that Ed and I take impartiality rules here at the BBC _very_ seriously."

"So, naturally, all discussion about Mrs. Thatcher's resignation will be totally void of political bias."

Ed nods respectfully.

Then he ducks out of frame, returning with glasses and a bottle of champagne. Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, he releases the cork, a dramatic spray of foam just falling short of the camera lens. He pours himself a glass, then one for Erica.

" _She's gone_!"

The flutes clink loudly in triumphant cheers.

Clearly, there weren't many fans of the old Prime Minister sat in the audience. They celebrated unashamedly with their hosts, applauding and whooping.

There's gentle _pop_ from the rafters. A stream of balloons and confetti rain down onto the stage, an over-the-top touch added by the production crew. They were all in on the gag.

And it was _damn_ funny.

* * *

Tom Reed didn't think so.

"Are you two taking the piss?" he howls, "What did I say?"

From the other side of their boss' desk, Ed and Erica shrug.

They'd thought very carefully before deciding to go ahead with the bit. Even edited it down. Initial incarnations of the joke had included ' _Ding Dong! The Witch is Dead_ ' from The Wizard of Oz playing in the background. In the end, they were happy with what they'd decided on.

"Do you know what you did wrong?" Tom demands, addressing the pair as though they were the school troublemakers and he was the principal.

"We forgot to clarify that it was virgin champagne" Ed quips.

Tom stares at his boyfriend long and hard. A muscle twitches in his temple. Whether he was about to laugh or cry, Erica couldn't tell. The boss ends up sinking back in his chair, head buried in his hands.

"They've cut the joke out, and most of the other Thatcher material. You'll have to record another cold open."

" _What_?" Erica cries. It was censure in her eyes. Something they'd been threatened with before but always avoided falling victim to. It's an uncomfortable wake-up call. They really _weren't_ indestructible, were they?

"We put it out as it is, and we'll be barraged with complaints" Tom argues, "It breaches impartiality rules."

"Why should we care if we upset Paul, aged 54, so much that he feels compelled to write in?" Ed returns.

Tom rolls his eyes. _Dangerous move_ , Erica thought. Ed detested being sassed. _He_ did the sassing, not the other way round.

"We're _not_ doing it again" the red-head declares, "It goes out as it is or not at all."

Erica doesn't hesitate in supporting him. It the ship was to go down, they'd damn well go with it.

"Then it won't go out" Tom states plainly, "Neither will any other episodes. That includes the radio show too. The company won't take the risk."

He's met with cold silence.

What were they meant to do, then? With no radio or TV show, they had no role. They'd already given up responsibility for Top of the Pops, wanting to focus their efforts on more creative pursuits.

"I'll let you do that thing I refuse to do" Ed entreats cheekily, "You know, _that_ thing."

Tom straightens up. He clears his throat loudly, blushing fiercely. " _Look_ ," he says, "This is your last strike, and God knows you've had too many as it is. Either you follow the rules, or the BBC lets you go."

* * *

John's glad when his wife arrives home early. He'd got himself into a right muddle with his luggage. How many pairs of socks were too many? Had he packed enough sweaters? Did he have every phone number he needed if something were to happen with the baby while he was gone?

"I hope you're having a better day than I am" Erica exhales, collapsing into a chair at the dinner table.

John senses her frustration in an instant. He'd been caught up deciding how many tea bags to pack. He was a man firmly of the opinion that foreign tea was dreadful. He aims one of the bags into her usual cup instead and flicks the kettle switch to on.

"What's up, love?" he asks, sliding into the seat beside hers.

Erica barely lifts her head off the tabletop. From her high chair, a spoon full of mashed banana held loosely in her hand, George peers curiously at her mother.

"Would you be angry if I said I might get fired soon?" she mumbles.

John bites back a chuckle, not wanting her to think he was mocking her. Truly? He'd seen it coming. He'd told her before that she was _difficult_. She'd interpreted as an insult, when in fact it had been intended as the opposite. Like Ed, she was uncompromising in her work. It was a quality that reminded him of his bandmates.

That unabashed assertiveness, or _arrogance_ , the group had often been credited with. 

"Unless you led a fistfight, I'm not angry at all" he soothes.

Erica smiles sleepily. She manages to raise her head just enough for it to sink into her husband's chest. "I love you, Habibi". The kiss he presses to the top of her head is a comfort. No matter what went on at the BBC, she always had her gorgeous little family.

Envious of the attention, George attempts to throw her spoon at her father. It slips from her fist mid-throw and ends up on the floor. She tries to shift in her chair to see where the utensil had vanished to, quickly growing frustrated by her inability to move. Her bottom lip trembles.

Patiently, John approaches. He was a seasoned pro at tackling the _terrible twos_ by now.

"Spoon, mama" George babbles, eager for her mother to join the search.

Erica resorts to keeping her daughter from bursting into tears while John cleans the spoon. Once it's returned to her, she tackles her food like nothing had happened, whining when her parents attempt to help her.

Freddie had affectionately labeled her a _proper little lady_.

"I'm sorry to depress you before your trip" Erica apologizes, gratefully accepting the steaming hot tea passed to her.

John snorts dryly. "I'm not exactly _bursting with joy_ about it" he sighs.

A jamming session just before the New Year had prompted Freddie to ask the boys whether they were prepared to head into the studio again. They all had ideas, and now there were no tours to worry about they could go at their own pace. Then it had been suggested they record in the studio they owned in Montreux.

"We thought we ought to do what we can in Switzerland, with Dave" he laments, "Before Freddie-" He cuts himself off, a painful sadness glazing over his eyes. "Well, while we can."

They wouldn't have the option of flying overseas before long. Freddie's strength wained.

There had been some frightful responses in the press to his gaunt appearance at the BRITS. His bandmates had stood by him, kept his secret. It was no concern of anyone's what the singer suffered. If ever he did reveal his diagnosis, it would be on his own terms.

As Freddie had defiantly proclaimed one evening, he had no interest in being an _AIDS poster boy_. He would be what he'd always been: a _star_.

"I'm sorry I can't go with you," Erica says. The versions of themselves from a year ago would have laughed. How much time had they spent arguing over their respective schedules? Finally, after nearly five years together, they were the kind of couple they always wanted to be. A _functional one_.

"That's okay, love" John smiles, "I'll be counting the days". He cuts her off with a kiss before she can call him a soft bastard.

John only planned to be gone for two weeks. But without his kids, without the wife he loved so dearly, two weeks seemed like an _age_.

* * *

A faint whiff of cigarette smoke rouses Erica from her slumber.

She turns her face away from the direction of the smell. She'd never dare touch the stuff while pregnant. It did play on her mind sometimes. Her work life had never been more volatile. Ordinarily, she'd seek out comfort in a packet of Marlboro.

John seems to puff away for that reason. He leans out of the bedroom window, taking short drags. With every few breaths, he swipes furiously at the midnight air, conscious of the smoke drifting inside. His shoulders sag guiltily when he realizes she's watching him.

" _Sorry_ " he mutters apologetically. He stubs the cigarette out on the window ledge.

The clock on the nightstand flashes furiously. "You've got a flight first thing, Habibi" Erica cautions, seeking out her slippers. Her swollen toes find them resting at her bedside. With a considerable effort, she shifts to her feet, her bump like a concrete slab strapped to her stomach. "What's wrong?"

John doesn’t speak at first. With eyes clenched shut, he relaxes into his wife’s embrace.

" _Freddie_.”

Erica rests her head on his shoulder, gazing aimlessly into the London night. She doesn’t interrupt him. Doesn’t insult him with words of sympathy she’d offered a thousand times before. Gradually, bit by bit, John was learning to articulate his feelings.

She was what she’d been long before she’d been anything else. A willing ear.

"I know he doesn’t want pity. And he’s more than than the illness. Of course, he is” he mutters lowly, “But every time I see him-“ He draws a shaky breath. “I’m reminded that he won’t always be around.”

"He’s _so_ sick now, Erica. All those memories of him dancing about at gigs, throwing himself all over the place. It’s all so distant.”

"Those memories aren't worth any less now. They're just made all the more precious" Erica counsels, "And in Montreux, you have the opportunity to create new ones."

She holds her husband tight. Presses a kiss to his cheek. "And when you're back, you can tell me all about it. The good and the bad."

" _Yeah_ " he breathes, wholly unconvincing. He'd hidden his grief before. It never ended well. Erica didn't want to push him, though. Everyone coped with their feelings in different ways. She had no right to poke her nose in until he was totally comfortable.

John turns to face her. He breaths sharply inward, repelling the tears threatening to come. Adopts a brave face. He knew she could see right through it, but he felt better wearing it. _Shielded_. 

"Come back to bed?" Erica asks. She wanted him to hold her while he could, hear him snore softly in her ear, protective arms wrapped around the life they'd created together. Nights over the next two weeks would be terribly lonely.

John kisses her lips, then her belly. "Yes, dear."

* * *

"Put that _down_."

Erica juggles what seems like an entire nursery. John's eldest, just shy of fifteen, helped her out where he could. They were all lovely children. Erica adored them all. But _fucking hell_ , they were a nightmare sometimes.

Breakfast time presented the biggest challenge of the day. Ordinarily, getting everyone ready for school and kindergarten would be a fairly straightforward task. But there was no John to aid her now.

She mops her brow as John's elder daughter throws a handful of cereals at one of her brothers. George watches the scene unfold, a cheeky grin plastered on her little face. Erica regards her bump wearily. The arrival of the baby would mean there were _six_ Deacons running around. "Contraception," she tells herself, "For the love of _God_ , be more careful with contraception."

"Michael, please don't put jelly in your sister's hair."

The boy blinks innocently at her, a spoonful of strawberry jelly raised precariously. The girl ducks out of the way, pulling the chair from under her brother, sending him onto the kitchen floor in an unceremonious lump. The boy curses loudly. He jumps to his feet and starts to chase the girl around the table.

" _Language_ " Erica yawns, numbly nibbling at the slice of toast she'd managed to save for herself.

Just audible above the chaos, a knock comes on the front door.

She shuffles over, nervously glancing over her shoulder toward the kitchen with every step.

"Roger?" she greets, finding the drummer on the doorstep, "John's already left for the airport."

The man brushes past her, nimbly navigating the blockage her bump created in the doorway. "Great," he says, "It's you I wanted to speak to."

"Oh, _please_. Make yourself at home" she grumbles, impatiently slamming the door shut behind him.

The children barely notice the man enter the room, so consumed were they by their usual pre-school mischief. George manages a toothy smile for her uncle. She waves a tiny hand his way, anticipating a cuddle. Roger swoops down on the child and swings her about, blowing a silly raspberry against her stomach when she starts to squeal.

"I hope this is important" Erica growls, exhausted by the children. Noticing her rub the small of her back, Robert offers her a chair to rest on. "Thank you, sweetheart."

The boy nods sweetly. Revived by his cocoa rocks, he snaps his fingers at his siblings. They quieten down just enough for the adults to hold up a coherent conversation.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning" Roger pokes.

He notices the woman's jaw clench. Knuckles bore, she sips quickly at her tea. The kind-natured smile he gives doesn't achieve anything. He feels slightly chilled under her weary stare, suddenly reminded that she was not one to piss off, particularly when pregnant.

"Kids, why don't you go into the other room?" she requests, "You can watch cartoons."

The four older children dash over to the TV next door. George looks after them, suddenly finding herself alone. Her features crumple. Roger banishes her blues with a loving kiss to her cheek.

"I'm in trouble at work" she confesses.

Roger chuckles, impressed. "Who'd you hit?"

" _Margaret Thatcher_ " Erica sighs, "Sadly, only verbally."

"Too fucking right" he cheers.

They were both rebels at heart. _Wannabe punks_ , Brian called them.

"And now the company wants us to tone down our politics to avoid complaints". She claws at her roots. God, it frustrated her. To not make the jokes and remarks they did would be to sell out, surely? What integrity was there in discussing the topic of the day and pretending to be fine with it? It wasn't what she and Ed were about.

But they also didn't want to get kicked out of the BBC.

"Fuck that" Roger counsels. He gasps, quickly holding his hands over George's ears. The toddler's parents had been forced to watch their language. Their daughter picked words up at an alarming rate now.

"Half of the stuff we've made over the years, the record companies didn't want a part of" he continues, " _Bohemian Rhapsody_ never would have been released if we'd listened."

Erica regards him with interest, early morning fury subsiding just enough for her to offer the drummer a seat at the table. "Really? So what did you do?"

Roger shrugs. "We went with our gut, and released it anyway," he says, "We've been our own bosses ever since."

A seed plants itself in Erica's mind.

She and Ed had fought as much they could within the company. They'd gone with their gut before, too, and reaped the consequences: sometimes good, sometimes bad. The bigger they got, the more their bosses' wanted to control them. Take their share of the rewards. Tom wasn't innocent in that. Indeed, he'd been the main drive behind their expedition to America.

"Going by the look on your face, you found that to be sage advice" Roger chirrs, "So you're obliged to help me out."

George nods, her short black curls bouncing animatedly. She points to her mother, signifying her support.

" _Fine_ " Erica cusses.

Roger eases her daughter back into her high chair. He dusts his hands off, taking a healing breath. An uneasy feeling strikes his counselor. She already assumed she wouldn't like what she was about to hear.

"I'm still in love with Ed, and I want your advice on how to get back together with him."

"Are you taking the piss?"

Roger tries in vain to cover the toddler's ears again. "Look-"

"The day of John and I's wedding, you shagged him in a gas station bathroom and went back to Debbie" Erica protests, "Last year, you hooked up again. And what did you do? You chose _Debbie_."

"Ed's been through Hell, Roger. He's finally with a boyfriend who supports him, and you want to tear that relationship apart because you can't bear being chained down to one person."

The drummer blinks, pretty blue eyes wide.

"Well?" she demands, "Am I wrong?"

Ed's decision to rekindle his friendship with the other man hadn't come easily. He'd wrestled with it a great deal in the months after their separation. There had been occasions where Erica had worried he'd be torn apart again, old wounds reemerging and sending his mind into bleak corners. He'd persevered. Tom, as insecure and domineering as he could be at times, had been the model confidant.

"You're not wrong" Roger admits, "I've acted like a complete cu-" He notices George watching him. "A clown. A complete clown". George recognizes the word and giggles. She reaches over to pinch her uncle's nose, making a brilliant _honk_ sound.

"And although I _do_ love Deb, I know I'm not doing right by her. I just can't shake it, Erica. And I don't know if I can keep pretending otherwise."

Erica searches for any hint of falseness in his words. Anything that might tell her he was merely seeking her friend out for sport, his boredom with domestic life seeping to the surface.

There isn't any. Roger meant every syllable. He loved Ed madly.

But, as far as she knew, Ed didn't love _him_. He loved _Tom_.

"If Ed comes to feel the same way, you have my full support" Erica sighs, silently craving the days when her best friend and the drummer were a bona fide item, "But I won't break him and Tom up. I can't."

Roger bows his head.

"I understand". He stands up, ready to make his exit, shoulders hunched sadly.

"This is something you've got to handle yourself, Rog."

Just as he reaches the kitchen doorway, he straightens up. He turns back and fixes the woman with bright eyes, that timeless cheeky grin of his plastered across his handsome features.

He had time before he had to be in Montreux.

The clock on the wall catches his attention.

Or perhaps not.

Once Montreux was through, though? What was to stop him?

He had a man to win back.


	32. Vogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed and Roger have a flirtatious phone call. Erica shares a plan. An emotionally exhausted John returns from Switzerland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Vogue video for reference:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GuJQSAiODqI
> 
> I can imagine Ed and Erica being obsessed with it when it came out!

There's a delay on the other end.

Roger waits anxiously, the receiver hold against his face. Any ideas he'd had on how to steer the conversation had vanished the moment he dialed Ed's number. He'd waited until his bandmates had retired to their respective hotel rooms. Deaky had told him of some party they ought to attend in Montreux, but he'd declined. Debbie remained in England, as did the children. There would be no eavesdroppers.

There's some brief static, then a familiar voice, Northern and beautiful.

"I don't care if you're _just doing your job_ , Tom, I'm still upset" Ed curses down the line, "Erica and I would appreciate a little support, you know."

Roger gulps. He'd deliberately forgotten the _boyfriend_ existed. He hesitates, his conscience throwing up uncomfortable questions. Clearly, the couple was enduring a rough patch. What right had he to swoop in while the man was vulnerable? He didn't want Ed to reciprocate his feelings just because Tom was being difficult.

" _Hello_?"

"Hiya, mate" Roger splutters. _Mate_. He aims a kick at the wall. Already, he was setting himself up as a permanent resident of the friend zone.

"Oh, Rog. How are you?" Ed answers, casual as ever.

Roger pauses again. He kicks another area, so as not to create a dent where his foot had landed last time. He was usually so _cool_ , so _effortless_ , even in Ed's indomitable company. What the fuck had happened to him? He'd been more self-assured as a spotty teenager.

"Alright," he says modestly, "Everything okay?"

Ed exhales sharply, the emotional weight on his chest changing his speech. "Just this nonsense with Erica and I being effectively booted from the BBC. Tom's totally kowtowed to his superiors. He doesn't get it. We're not selling out for their sake."

"Nor should you" Roger agrees, wanting to share with the man the same confidence he'd hoped to instill in Erica. The band had never cowered to the pressure of stuffy men in suits. Why should they? "Keep your soul intact."

"Exactly," Ed says. Roger's certain he's nodding vigorously, wherever he'd accepted the call. He assumed Tom was nowhere to be seen, nor Erica. Ed was surely as alone as he was. There were no curious ears snooping on either end.

Oh God, was he being creepy? Manipulative in some way? But then, what played on his mind wasn't exactly above board, was it? He was someone in a committed relationship lusting after _someone else_ in a committed relationship.

"Erica reckons she's got a plan. Something that'll mean we can keep doing the show". Ed chuckles warmly. "She's dead clever, Erica. _Brilliant_."

Roger remembers the woman's cautionary words to him. She didn't exactly _approve_ of his mission. She'd nearly turned him off the idea.

He's searching for the right words when he notices there's a song playing faintly over the line. He recognized the bassline from one of the constantly repeated music videos on MTV.

"Madonna?" Roger asks.

He hears Ed shuffle, presumably _striking a pose_. "It's the best track I've heard in ages" he squeals. He moves away from the receiver to dance along, 

Laughing, Roger tries to picture the scene. He imagines Ed vogueing across the floorboards, sleek and artful in his movements. He'd always been a good dancer. When they were an item, he'd quite often arrived at the other man's apartment to find him throwing shapes to _Human League_ records.

"I've dyed my hair like hers too" Ed reveals.

Roger's fantasy grows even more vivid. Gorgeous red locks were replaced by sexy bleach blonde. And _God_ , did he love a blonde.

"Tom says he prefers the ginger, but I don't care."

"I can't wait to see it. I bet you look stunning". The drummer grimaces. It wasn't his smoothest compliment.

Ed picks the receiver up. "Is that right?" he drawls. His voice drops to the husky depths it often did when he made a suggestive comment, the product of years of smoking and flirting. Roger had always loved that tone of his. It offered such a delicious contrast to Ed's androgynous appearance.

"I should wear one of those cone bras too."

Roger unfastens the top button of his shirt, suddenly _very_ hot.

He'd seen Ed wear all kinds of things that _supposedly_ weren't meant for men. Hot pants, skirts, fishnet tights. All of them he made his own, forever strutting a catwalk only he could see, camera bulbs flashing all around him. He was _gorgeous_. The most enchanting person the drummer had ever laid eyes on.

"Would you let me take you dancing?" Ed proposes.

Roger steadies himself, the visions dancing about his head steadily verging on the pornographic. "I'm not much of a dancer."

Ed leans closer to the receiver. The audio crackles ever so slightly. Makes the other man feel as though he's in his head. "I disagree. You've got _moves_."

He wasn't referring to dance moves. That was obvious from his cadence. No, Ed was finally reliving experiences Roger resurrected every time he found himself home alone. Every shower he had. Every empty bed he slept in while Debbie was away for work. Every lonely opportunity he had where he had nothing else to do but get off on evergreen memories of past shags.

With his free hand, he hovers about his jean zipper. He felt dirty even thinking that way. For all he knew, Ed was just messing with him. Just wanted him wrapped about his little finger, employing every cheeky move in the book.

In a rare moment of indiscretion, John had mentioned that Erica liked to play games. Mischief was a common theme with the journalists.

"Will you come and see me when you're back?" Ed asks, "It'd be nice to catch up properly."

Roger's too turned on for a filter. "Will Tom be around?" he asks.

"My darling husband?" Ed toys, "I'm not sure. I might forgive him, I might not."

The drummer grips the edge of a nearby table, eyes clenching shut. In his visions, he doesn't dig his nails into polished wood, but Ed's skin. He makes his mark along the younger man's shoulders, fingers tangled in those newly blonde locks of his. He tugs hard, irresistible waves of pain forcing Ed onto his knees before him.

When he reaches for his fly, it isn't his own hand that exposes his boxers, but Ed's.

"You'll have to wait and see, won't you?" the man teases.

Roger prepares to make quick goodbyes and slam the receiver down, eager to start working himself into a stupor.

"It's a date" he gasps.

* * *

_Greta Garbo, and Monroe_

_Dietrich and DiMaggio_

With remarkable grace for a heavily pregnant woman, Erica vogues effortlessly across the sitting room.

_Marlon Brando, Jimmy Dean_

_On the cover of a magazine_

They'd both memorized the choreography. It would be ready to bust out once the baby was born, and Erica was able to join him at their favorite gay clubs again.

He'd tried to sneak her into _Heaven_ , a particularly popular joint in the center of the city, but John had put his foot down. It was unusually mature of Erica to agree. They'd grown considerably as a couple since their marriage.

"I had a dream about Madonna last night" Erica admits, mid-move. The latest product of her pregnancy-induced sexual frenzies. With John away in Switzerland, there had been no other outlet for her excess libido. 

"What happened?" Ed coos.

"It got to that scene in the music video where she's topless. She asked me to eat her out, so I pushed her onto the bed and did just that". She grins, not guilty in the slightest. " _Hormones_."

Ed erupts in hysterics when she questions whether John would be prepared to don a Madonna-style wig.

She adored his new hair color. It had been a shock at first, but she'd adapted very well. Blonde suited him. She'd been oddly persistent in asking why he'd made the change. Both knew a drummer who _loved_ a blonde. Ed had confessed that he hadn't thought at all about impressing Roger.

" _You've always been a bimbo_ " she'd quipped.

Idle chatter dealt with, Erica had leaped into her idea.

Notes were tossed at her co-host, hastily scribbled and barely legible. Ed tries to decipher their meaning.

"We start our own production company" she summarises.

Still attempting to cut through her three-AM scribbles, Ed quirks a brow. " _Sorry_?"

"We form our own company. That way we can set our own rules for the TV show."

The BBC had made clear that they weren't comfortable creating their show anymore. Complaints made them fearful. There was legal action looming near, too. The BBC was a stoically impartial institution. They couldn't possibly sign off on the pair's politics.

They could, however, if the show was made by someone else.

"We can bear the brunt of the consequences. The Beeb goes free."

Ed blinks hard. "How the fuck do we _start_ a company?" he demands.

Erica stalls. She had no business training of any kind. Others, _Tom particularly_ , had dealt with that side of things as their fame grew. "We've managed everything else. We can manage this" she argues, defiant, "John's a business whizz. He can help out."

Her partner grins, her confidence infectious.

"Even if we do produce the show ourselves" he queries, "How do we distribute it?"

Other TV channels relief on commercials, annoying things in Erica's opinion. Nuisances that broke apart the intended program. That was a strength of the BBC's. There were no advertisements. Shows were aired without interruption.

"We get the BBC to air it" she suggests, "We can use Tom to fight our case."

The mention of his boyfriend makes Ed nervous. He did love the man, enough to not want to _use_ him. Blessedly, there was just enough residual disappointment on his end to make the idea appealing. "It _would_ make up for the way he's abandoned us."

"Do we have the money?" Ed ponders, "I know we've made plenty, but if we make the show all the costs will fall on us."

"Our show's good enough to generate every penny."

Erica excites him with a lively gaze. She oozed self-assurance, a belief in their work that bordered on arrogance. At the company, it was an egotism that had led to them as near to dismissal as they'd ever got.

In this instance, it was perfect.

"What should we call it? The company?" 

_Tetley and Salib_ sounded dull. Erica preferred to go by her husband's surname, anyway.

A disparaging phrase uttered to Tom by his superiors sprang to mind.

" _Communist Blowhard Productions_."

Ed cackles. It was a working title, at least.

* * *

The band caught a late flight. It was near-midnight in London by the time they touched down.

Erica had arranged for the Harley-Davidson to await John at the airport. She anticipated a febrile cocktail of emotions. Riding home on his beloved motorbike might clear his head just a little, she thought.

She'd been half-asleep when she heard the front door open. Faster than anything, her husband had scaled the stairs. Through the monitor resting on her nightstand, she'd heard him whisper to their daughter in the nursery. Gently reiterate his love for her, promise to cave to her every toddler-like whim to make up for his absence. He mentioned how just seeing her cheered him up.

Montreux had been taxing, he'd said.

Immersed in sweet dreams, George had not heard him. She'd be relieved to find her father back, though. The two were practically inseparable.

The door to the bedroom had creaked open. John had leaped into the shower before she could greet him properly. After five minutes or so, her husband had slipped under the bedsheets, steam billowing behind him.

The stress of two weeks apart had hit her. " _I missed you_ " she'd whispered in Arabic, her default when fatigued. John didn't need to understand the language to comprehend her meaning. She'd shown him. Submitted herself to him wholly, uttering the warmest praises.

Morning rolled around. The Deacons recuperated from their various exploits by staying in.

The joy of finding her lover beside her once more had roused Erica from a healing slumber. John's stubble brushing against her neck, caring touch enveloping her stomach, she'd pulled herself on top of him.

Even if he didn’t say it, it was obvious he was stressed. Where words failed, Erica had hoped to show him how much she cared.

With her mouth she’d helped him unwind, settling below the covers in a position comfortable for her belly, guiding his tired fingers into her hair for support.

“Come here” he’d bid, easing her back up. He wanted to feel her _properly_. 

One lovemaking session led to another. The late morning sun creeping through a crack in the curtains, Erica found herself spread beneath him, thighs resting either side of his middle.

“ _Oh, Habibi_ ” she’d hummed in his ear, all the encouragement he needed to make her writhe under him. Make her bite her lip in a pointless attempt to stop herself from crying out.

With one last guttural groan, John collapses on top of her.

“I’m a stupid man” he pants, “I should never have gone away.”

He kisses her tenderly, painting a masterpiece on swollen lips.

Flushed, Erica curls a grey hair about her finger. “You’re here now, my love.”

She checks the clock on the nightstand, then her surroundings. “These sheets need changing” she notes, only now aware of how sweat-stained the material had become.

”I’ll do it” John offers, “Go run yourself a bath.”

He joins her once the chore is complete, a delighted sigh escaping his lips the moment the heat hits him. Idly they enjoy the bubbles, soothing their various aches and pains with scented oils.

“Do you want to talk about Montreux?” Erica poses.

She’s met with silence. The figure she presses her back against stiffens. Though she can’t see it, she’s certain her husband’s expression drops.

“You can talk to me, Habibi” she urges, “It’s okay to be upset-“

“I don’t want to” John snaps, “Not now, at least.”

“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of-“

“ _Not now_.”

She’d yet to call Jim and ask how the trip went. He’d be open with her. Freddie could be just as unsure in processing his emotions, forever putting on that brave face of his.

The mask John wore was not so steadfast.

”Went for another scan while you were gone” Erica says, steering the conversation into more cheerful waters. She’d settled on waiting until her husband was absolutely ready to discuss the trip. “Everything’s as it should be.”

John settles against the porcelain of the bath tub, holding his love close, hands resting on her bump as always.

“I’m glad” he smiles, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck.

“We’ll have to put a list of names together.”

Her third trimester beckoned. Already confused times would be plunged into a frantic, pre-baby panic before long.

Erica couldn’t help but feel slightly detached from the whole process. The group would be welcoming a new member just as another entered the aching, painful final stages of his illness.

“John?” Erica calls out, realizing her words fell on deaf ears. She shifts in the tub, wary of getting the tiles below wet.

Eyelids dropped shut, tired wrinkles etched across his brow, John snores softly.

For the first time in two weeks, he sleeps soundly.


	33. Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erica shows Jim and Fred around the new studio. John’s walls start to crumble. Roger and Ed enjoy a private moment.

"Jim, feed me a chip."

Propping the studio door open with one hand, the other holding onto the paper, Jim struggles. Erica extracts a particularly chunky chip from the bag and feeds it to the starving man.

"Couldn't you get it yourself?" the Irishman questions, amused nonetheless by his husband's divadom.

"I'm _tired_ " Freddie complains, sporting a coy smile, "That parking lot is huge."

It wasn't. He was tired though. That was evident in the way he walked. His movements were stiffened somewhat, as though with every stride he had to appeal to his legs to _move_. As he climbed out of the car, his pants riding up at the ankles, Erica had caught a glimpse of a rash just peeking out above his sock. It was fierce, and obviously very sore. Quickly, she'd averted her gaze. Not because it disgusted her. Freddie would _never_ disgust her.

It was because he'd cuss her if he caught her looking. He'd sense the sorrow in her and insist she sit down with him for another of his 'I don't care for your pity' talks. Above all, she wanted to respect him. He deserved that. Freddie deserved all the good and kindness the world had to offer.

Buying him and Jim a large bag of chips from a stand across the street was one such kindness, small but enough to make them smile.

"Blimey" Jim whistles, studying the space, "It's huge in here."

Erica leaps in front of the pair, whispering an apology to the baby for the sudden movement, and lets her imagination kick in.

"We can fit loads of tiered seating against that wall" she presents, "And over there we'll have a booth for the sound guys."

Around her, the studio springs to life. She and Ed had pictured it all perfectly the moment they set foot in the place.

They'd scoured the property listings for an ideal space for the show. Most of the venues they'd viewed weren't big enough. Tom, a very reluctant supporter of their bid for independence, had advised they start small. "Fuck that" Ed had dismissed, "We don't do _small_."

The place they'd settled on was an old, unused theatre near the West End. The decor was a little antiquated, so they'd employed a team of builders to get it up to date. Together, they'd spent a lot of money bringing their idea to life. Far more than they'd anticipated.

The kind of sums that made them wished they'd partied a little less in previous years.

John had helped out on the figures. A pen tucked behind his ear, he'd printed out spreadsheet upon spreadsheet, often working well into the night in the effort to sort out the books. Erica had left him to it. He seemed to need the distraction. Not that she considered _accountancy_ to be the best outlet for misery.

"Have you named this production company of yours yet?" Freddie asks, taking the woman's arm as they toured the TV show's new home.

"We can't make up our mind" Erica sighs, "I'm open to ideas". She grins cheekily.

Freddie grins back, dark eyes twinkling mischievously. "Delilah Productions."

Jim chokes on a chip. "You and that bloody cat" he chuckles, "She's already got an entire song dedicated to her on this new album."

"Roger and I made the _meow_ sounds" the singer giggles to himself.

Erica makes a mental note to request a copy. "You strange, beautiful man" she breathes.

Another expedition to Switzerland had been arranged, but quickly scrapped. Freddie didn't feel up to the journey. Instead, the band had retreated back to Metropolis Studios in London. John had revealed some early concept art for the album sleeve, and the name too. _Innuendo_. She'd overheard him tweaking one or two new basslines and been impressed with what she'd heard so far.

Their tour of the new studio takes them to another room, once used as a lounge by theatre patrons. The bar had been dismantled. All that remained of the original furniture was a dusty old grand piano. The group finds Ed sat on the stool.

"It's Marilyn Monroe" Fred taunts. Ed whips his newly dyed locks back, pining the others with a sultry over-the-shoulder stare.

He plays a familiar tune, putting on a husky voice. " _Happy birthday to you_ " he purrs, " _Happy birthday, Mr. President_."

Jim rewards the act with the last chip in the bag.

"I didn't know you could play so well" Erica observes.

Ed tickles the ivories skillfully, finishing with a dramatic flourish of his hand. Freddie perches down on the stool beside him and steadies himself with a deep breath. Jim dutifully fetches a chair for Erica, noticing how the swelling in her ankles made her hop from foot to foot.

"I've had lessons" Ed boasts, winking at Fred.

The singer shrugs modestly.

"Serenade me" Erica requests. Comfortable in a seat of his own, Jim pats his lap. She rests her legs across it, sighing in relief now all pressure was off her feet. Thank God the chairs were cushioned, too. Her pregnancy aches had been horrendous ever since she woke up.

Ed clears his throat, stealing one final encouraging nod from his tutor, then begins.

_I can dim the lights_

_And sing you songs full of sad things_

_We can do the tango just for two_

His voice is low but steady. Erica realizes she'd never heard her friend sing _properly_. He enjoyed belting out a pop track to make people laugh. And in his drinking days, he enjoyed bursting into song. He was _good_. Soothing and imposing all at once, quite clearly capable of enchanting with slow numbers and dominating with powerful numbers.

She could see him on Broadway if he kept at it.

_I can serenade_

_And gently play on your heartstrings_

_Be a Valentino just for you_

They all join in with the chorus. Freddie, still as stunning a vocalist as ever, lowers his volume to allow Ed to take center stage.

_Ooh, love_

_Ooh, loverboy_

_What you doin' tonight?_

_Hey boy_

Erica beams as he plays on. She wasn't sure if it was the hormones or just the overwhelming relief that Ed finally seemed to be totally _happy_ , but she's suddenly fighting back tears. His joy was a surprise. He and Tom had been bickering like children ever since the boss had stood up to them. Perhaps they'd worked things out? Her brow wrinkles.

Or had someone else swooped in now Ed was keeping Tom at a distance?

_Set my alarm_

_Turn on my charm_

_That's because I'm a good old-fashioned loverboy_

* * *

Erica regrets the speed with which she bolts out of her cab. She offers her bump a conciliatory rub. The poor kid was going through it today.

She'd only leaped off the backseat because she'd found a tense argument unfolding on her driveway.

John seemed to have barely made it off his motorbike when a leech with a pen and a notepad dived on him. The reporter, from one of the country's many disreputable rags, must have been hiding in the bushes, ready to pounce the moment the poor man arrived home. Erica dreaded to think how long the idiot had been hanging around.

The children were inside the house, watched over by a babysitter. Had the journalist tried to question her too?

"Just get lost, yeah?" John curses, trying to brush past the man.

The reporter steps in front of him, features contorting into a mocking snarl. "Everyone knows there's something wrong with Fred" he spits, "All I need is a little quote, and I'll be on my way."

"Fuck off. That's your quote."

Erica bounds up the driveway with thunder on her tail. If the intrusion wasn't infuriating enough, John was visibly distressed. He put an aggressive front on for the journalist, but with every poke, the facade crumbled just a little more.

"Unless you want my foot up your arse, you'll leave" she bellows, jamming a finger at the man's greasy little face.

She steps between him and John, taking her husband's hand and giving it a squeeze.

The journalist stalks off, shoving his pen back into his pocket.

As soon as he disappears around the hedgerow, John makes a beeline for the front door. As keenly as her puffy ankles would allow, Erica chases him.

The kids were enjoying their dinner in the kitchen, entertained by whatever story their babysitter told. The girl notices their father storm through the hallway and increases her efforts, conscious of the little ones catching their dad in a foul mood. Erica mouthes a grateful ' _thank you_ ' her way.

John finds the sitting room and collapses against the wall. He curls himself into a ball, frustratedly clawing at his greying curls. Erica shuts the door behind her and sinks onto the carpet beside him.

"John?"

He pulls his hands away to reveal tear-stained cheeks. His chest rattles loudly, his entire form convulsing in anguish. She'd never seen him like this. He'd cried in front of her before, but never broken down so severely. Instinctively she wraps him up in a nursing cuddle, resting her head atop his. She didn't want him to see the tears that formed in her own eyes.

"It's okay, love. Let it all out" she comforts.

John clings to her, sobs forcing their way out with such ferocity his body shook.

"I'm here, John. It's alright" Erica whispers. She swallows hard, stricken tone betraying her grief.

John tries to speak, utter anything at all that might convey how hopelessly low he felt. All that comes out is a distressed whimper.

The sound is heartbreaking. Shattered, Erica struggles to offer up healing words. All she can do is hold him close. Make him feel secure in her arms. 

"I hate this" he mourns.

"I know, Habibi. I'm sorry."

"I really, _really_ , hate this."

* * *

Ed and Roger bring their glasses together with a satisfying clink.

"Ah, _Sunny Delight_ " the younger man sings, marveling at the vibrant orange liquid.

"What vintage is it?" Roger asks, inspecting the drink with a Funyun monocle.

"Tastes like a '73 to me."

"A good year."

Their schedules clear, they'd decided to spend the evening together. Tom had bolted overseas for a business conference, leaving Ed to his own devices at the house. Roger had arrived on the doorstep exactly when he said he would, equipped with snacks and a VHS copy of _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes_.

The drummer had been quite taken aback with Ed's new hair color. It suited him just as he knew it would. Looked soft, _silky_ , perfect for threading his fingers through. Ed was not oblivious to the way the man's cheeks flushed but said nothing.

Roger had enjoyed the movie, despite not being his sort of thing. Ed knew all the musical numbers off by heart. He even claimed to have owned a pink dress identical to that worn by Marilyn during the _Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend_ number. "I used to perform it in front of the mirror" he’d recalled, “Erica helped me with the lifts.”

Most of the evening had been spent chatting. Roger discussed the album. Ed shared his excitement about the new direction he and Erica were taking in their careers.

“Does Tom like old movies?” Roger ponders, munching on a pretzel. His conscience disowns the question with a tut. It was at least the seventh time he’d mentioned Ed’s boyfriend for no reason. It was as if he was searching for a way to pick apart the other man’s character, make Ed aware of a fault in his lover he hadn’t noticed before.

It wasn’t an approach he was comfortable with. No, he _despised_ it. If Ed was to ever return his feelings again, it would have to be without mind games.

“He does” Ed replies, “We love watching those old Hollywood flicks together. He has all sorts of trivia up his sleeve. It’s brilliant.”

“Talking while a movie’s playing? I hate that” Roger grumbles into his glass.

“You hate Tom, don’t you?”

Ed catches him off guard. He chuckles childishly when the drummer snorts out orange juice. “Tom doesn’t like you either.”

Roger splutters incoherently. “Why would I hate him?”

“Because he’s with me.”

“And why would I care about that?”

Ed narrows his eyes. Demurely he sips at his drink. Roger clenches his fists beneath the table, determined to stop himself from pulling the younger man into a feverish embrace.

 _Fuck_ , he was sexy, pale skin glowing under the dim light of the kitchen. The wicked voices in his head contemplate Ed’s poise. How easy would it be to sweep him off his stool and into his lap? Perhaps he’d lift him onto the table instead, push his knee between his thighs, make him swear blindly.

”I rather hoped you _would_ care” Ed chances. His Adam’s apple bobs. With a quick swipe of his tongue he wets his lips. Roger suddenly notices how blown his pupils are, the gorgeous green of his irises barely visible.

Roger rubs his legs together, eager for friction.

“And why’s that?” he asks boldly. The air in the kitchen thickens, though the room somehow fades from view. There’s only Ed, face now so close to his he could feel his every breath tickle his cheeks.

“I don’t want to sit and answer questions all night.

“What _do_ you want to do?” Roger challenges. Shit. _Another_ question.

Ed curls a finger about his collar and pulls him to his lips. The kiss is hard, clumsy, but _damn_ good. A hopeful first taste of things to come.  
  
Roger pinches himself to check he isn’t lost in one of his dreams. He’d spent so long pining after the man he could scarcely believe what was happening. He doesn’t have time to contemplate Debbie, or Tom. He knows only the taste of the person kissing him, the tongue dancing a skilful samba along with his.

Ed leaps from his seat and across the tabletop. He straddles the drummer gracefully, grinding down hard. Roger grunts against his mouth.

”Fuck, this _hair_ ” he curses, sinking his fingers into the man’s hair. He tugs roughly, forcing Ed’s mouth open just a little more. 

Spurred on by the compliment, Ed rolls his hips again. He seeks out a steady rhythm, nails digging into his lover’s neck. “This is wrong” he groans into his ear.

“Very” Roger agrees. He slaps the man’s behind hard, then settles his hand there. He pushes down in time with Ed, the sensation of jeans rubbing against jeans uncomfortable and delightful and sinful and warm.

The admission was a courteous one, not an honest one. They called the encounter _wrong_ not because they truly felt it, but because they thought it _ought_ to be.

Their lips crash together once more, frenzied, hectic. Roger catches his bottom lip between his teeth. He tugs gently, then hard, the sounds Ed made going right to his crotch.

The flame lingers. The sight of the man gliding on top of him, perfect brow glistening, slender chest heaving. It was too much. Soon he’s bucking his hips between every other thrust, swearing furiously.

“ _Fuck_.”

Roger feels every muscle in his body tense in fierce, long waves. He sinks his head against the other man’s shoulder.

”Oh, shit” Ed sighs.

Through hooded eyes Roger just about notices him glance at his lap.

“I know” he pants, “We shouldn’t have done that.”

”That’s bad too” Ed tuts, “But I was referring to the mess you’ve made of my jeans.”


	34. My Bijou

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group make important decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s like 3 AM but I ain’t mad. I really enjoyed writing this one!

_You and me_

_We are destined_

_You'll agree_

_To spend the rest of our lives with each other_

Roger watches the tape spin, as he had done for the last thirty minutes. Dave had retired after the third time the track repeated, murmuring under his breath that he was in dire need of a stiff drink. Roger had offered little no conversation. He just stared ahead, through the glass screen into the recording studio.

He'd witnessed most of the track's recording. There were no drums on the song, no bass. Just Brian, making his guitar weep in the most hauntingly beautiful way, and Freddie. Oh, _Freddie_. The drummer wasn't ashamed to say his friend had moved him to tears with his vocals. The lyrics were few but from the heart. He sang every line with tenderness.

Brian had backed away to give Anita a call, fearing the latest of their recording sessions would be pushed well into the night. Freddie, feeble frame tiring, had invited his husband to join him on the couch. He'd quickly fallen asleep, arms wrapped around Jim's middle. Then Roger had felt like crying again.

_The rest of our days like two lovers_

_For ever_

_For ever_

_My Bijou_

Even the name touched him. Jim was Freddie's _bijou_. His precious jewel, the one he treasured above all others.

"I want that" Roger hears himself sigh. Brian rolls his eyes. "I saw that, bastard."

The guitarist sets his cup of tea on the mixing desk, only to move it elsewhere. They'd worked damn hard all day. The other boys would surely throw him off the top of the building if he spilled his drink all over the tape.

"You _would_ have that if you made up your mind" he lectures.

Roger narrows his eyes skeptically. "If it's so easy, why did you dither over choosing Anita?"

Brian grimaces. He'd been so settled with the actress over the last few years, he'd barely considered the trouble their love had caused. " _Touche_."

"I really like Debbie. And we have a kid together" Roger reiterates, going through the dilemma once more in the vain hope he'd finally reach a decision, "But _Ed_? It's like he's in my veins."

"Like, we were going at it again last night". He flips his middle finger when Brian groans. "And I remember thinking my heart was about to explode. It didn't matter that we both had partners to get back to. We were together, and it was fucking _delightful_."

Brian sighs. He'd watched his bandmate wrestle with his feelings with the younger man for _years_ now. Every time he spoke, with varying degrees of graphic detail, about how madly he loved Ed. Each time, he'd been wrenched back to the odd _ice cream flavors_ talk they'd had in '85, back in Munich. When Roger had trusted him to _open up,_ difficult and awkward as it was _._

In some odd way that suited the couple entirely, he supposed Roger and Ed must have been made for one another. And yet they'd never _quite_ made it. Something always went wrong.

"For the love of God, figure it out" Brian advises, "You'll both end up going insane if you don't stop leaving one another in suspense. That's not to mention the damage you're doing to Deb and Tom."

Roger chews his gum idly, lowering his shades over his eyes. "Moral righteousness doesn't suit you, May."

"Oh for-" Brian reaches across the mixing desk to snatch the sunglasses off his face. With a ferocity rarely seen in him, he points a finger in his bandmate's face. " _Figure. It. Out_."

* * *

Erica draws a deep breath. She'd sat down mere seconds ago, but already the thick, stifling air in Tom's office exhausted her. Hormones raging, she didn't have it in her to pretend to be sympathetic to whatever Ed and Tom were going through.

The couple regards each other coolly from opposite sides of the desk.

"I really can't be arsed to act as your fucking marriage counselor" she grumbles, "So can you _please_ park whatever spat you're having and help me get something done?"

Tom's eyes snap over to the woman. He's defiant at first but quickly shudders. "Yes, right" he stutters, "I've discussed your proposal at length with the guys upstairs. We have _questions_."

"Producing the TV show with your own company means you'll be responsible for _everything_. Editing, mixing, all of it."

"We know."

"And any _complaints_ made about the show" He casts a knowing glance between the duo. He prayed they'd hired plenty of people in their new company's PR department. Offending was a birthright as far as they were concerned. "Are to be handled by _you_ , not the BBC."

"We look forward to it" Ed grins.

"And you understand the BBC will have to take a percentage of the money the show makes. We _are_ airing it, after all."

Erica narrows her eyes. John, her lovely business whiz, had advised her to stand her ground on that front. "A _limited_ percentage. The BBC's main reward will be all the viewers we bring in" she aims, lips flirting with a cocky smile. She didn't care if he thought she was a bitch. They hadn't started their own company to bend over backward to other people's rules again.

"Does it actually have a name yet?" Tom enquires. Ed shifts in his seat nervously. " _No_ , I take it."

They still had Tetley and Salib on the paperwork, a temporary solution to keep various penpushers happy. They'd had plenty of suggestions, ranging from the wickedly clever to the ridiculous. Erica's pal Keith Richards had called late one night to instruct her to name the company ' _Mary Jane_ ', in honor of the good times they'd had in Los Angeles. It had made her laugh at least.

"The guys upstairs won't sign off on this until they're sure this production company is _ready_."

"But once that's done, we're good to go? The BBC will carry on airing our show?" Ed pipes up, hopefully.

Tom almost melts beneath that wide-eyed gaze of his. He's so compelled he almost forgets to reply. "Yes, I should think so". His vision darkens abruptly. Undying love is replaced by something else. Betrayal? Erica couldn't quite work it out. Their falling out came at a curious time.

Weeks had passed since Roger admitted to her that he still loved Ed. She was aware the pair hung out a lot. Even found the drummer just leaving as she arrived at her friend's door, hastily buttoning his collar.

Erica almost slaps herself. It was obvious what was going on. She makes a mental note to clip Ed around the ear. For all his faults, Tom was a good man. Not that anyone deserved to be cheated on.

"There are other things to consider. For example, we'd have to maintain a good working relationship. Continue to _trust_ one another."

Ed's expression stiffens. Seething in his seat, he scratches at the skin just under his collar. The movement exposes a purple, raw hickey. He quickly covers it up again, though he doesn't know why. He'd already come clean. 

The statement doesn't sit right with Erica. It felt too much like an ultimatum. Tom had served the two a thinly-veiled threat. There were two options, much more complex than they appeared. It wasn't a choice between taking the show to air or letting it die for good.

It was a choice between _Tom_ and _Roger_.

* * *

'WE LOVE YOU DAD'

The children had fought for control of the piping bag when icing the words onto the cake. Few letters actually remained by now. Everyone had treated themselves to generous slices. John was no exception. He'd been slightly taken aback by the taste upon his first bite. Then he'd been struck by the kindness of the gesture and devoured every last crumb.

His kids knew he was going through a difficult time and wanted to cheer him up. Erica had supervised as they baked. It had occurred to all halfway through the process that none of them actually knew how to make a cake. Various quantities of flour and sugar had been thrown into a bowl. They'd very nearly forgotten to include eggs. Erica had hastily cracked one into the pan. It had already been in the oven for ten minutes. "I'll be fine" she'd insisted.

Curiously, she'd chewed at her own slice _very_ slowly. " _Pregnancy pains_ " she'd excused, not wanting to let the children down.

"How's it taste, Dad?" one of John's sons had asked, beaming proudly. His siblings had gathered near, eager to hear the review.

"Delicious," John said.

"I'll get you another slice!"

Erica regards the two empty plates placed in front of her husband, impressed. John pats his stomach. He covers his mouth to conceal a burp, blushing when he realizes he's been watched. "That cheered me up," he says, "Even if it did taste like-" He pauses, uncomfortable speaking ill of what had been an adorable display of affection.

"Like _what_ , John?" Erica teases.

"Happiness. Pure joy" he insists. "God knows I need it."

Slowly, one hand pressed to her back, Erica moves over to join him on the couch. John has to ease her down onto the cushion. Her knees wouldn't bend like they used to, and if she leaned too far one way she felt as though she was going to topple over. The baby hung like a great bloody weight around her middle. They were an active child, always kicking away when she was trying to concentrate on something. She always called John over when it happened.

Anything to do with the baby made him smile. She let him speak to her bump for the same reason. He talked for hours on end some nights, detailing life in the studio in between excited babbling about how keen he was to meet them.

"You're going to ask me to open up again, aren't you?"

"Only if you're comfortable doing so."

John wraps an arm around his wife's shoulders. He pulls her against his chest, resting his chin atop her soft curls. "I don't know what else to say" he confesses sadly, "I feel like I just have to muddle through it."

Erica nestles as close to him as she could. There was no happy scenario she could offer him, was there? She couldn't tell him it would all be fine in the end, because it wouldn't.

"You're not alone, Habibi," she says, "I'm here. _Always_."

She feels his grip on her tighten. His voice drops to something just above a whisper, frightened and hollow. "You'll never leave me, will you?" he poses. Erica feels her bottom lip tremble. He asked the question because he knew Freddie would, against his will and against everyone else's.

With a gentle touch, Erica angles his face near to hers. She wanted him to look at her, to read her face and know she meant what she said. " _Never,_ " she says, sealing the promise with a kiss.

* * *

"You're being totally fucking immature."

Tom scoffs. He throws his arms aloft in exasperation. He and his boyfriend had set out to have a constructive conversation about their problems. Instead, an argument had broken out. Ed had been insulted by the notion that what drove them apart could be settled rationally. By his own admission, he'd behaved completely _irrationally_.

"You're having an affair" Tom cries, "And somehow _I'm_ the villain?"

Throat sore from so much bickering, Ed tears open the refrigerator door. He seizes the bottle of Sunny D, intending to swig it right out of the container. He smiles to himself as the rim touches his lips. It was the drink he and Roger had shared the night they rekindled their relationship.

He'd tried all he could to be overwhelmed with guilt. It wasn't as though he was completely proud. Thoughts of Craig and that whole debacle had drifted back to him. It didn't make him feel good, knowing he'd now betrayed two boyfriends in favor of the same man.

Fuck, Roger made him happy though. Being with him was easy.

"Why bring work into it?" Ed demands, "That's what that whole 'working relationship' bullshit was about, right?"

A denial teeters on Tom's tongue. Then he withdraws into himself, regretful. He'd always credited himself as a professional. He'd got on fabulously with the duo at first. He was one of the few officials at the company that they liked.

He was _so_ in love with Ed. Worshipped the ground he walked on, adored his every word and habit, and gesture. It had been quite telling that his first reaction upon being told he'd been cheated on what to question himself. What had he done to push Ed into the arms of Roger? Had he not been attentive enough? Was it his fault?

He resented what had happened to him, but he didn't want to let his boyfriend go just yet. He'd cling to him by whatever means necessary, even if that meant threatening to withhold support for the TV show. _Emotional blackmail_ , in other words.

"I fucked up. And I know apologizing over and over doesn't erase the hurt I've caused" Ed reasons, "But _please_ don't punish Erica too."

Tom considers his boyfriend. Ed could tell by his body language that he wanted to pace toward him, sweep him up into a loving embrace. He'd pour his heart out as he had done at many insecure moments, reaffirm his commitment. For some reason, Tom would forgive him.

"Alright," the boss speaks, barely containing his tears, "I'll sign off on the TV show. And I won't ask anything in return."

Ed steps forward. He places his hands in the other man's and squeezes tight. He backs off before his boyfriend can use the interaction as a reason to pull him close. He wouldn't torture him like that. Giving him false hope was cruel. A gulp lodges itself in his throat. He had to end it _now,_ didn't he _?_

"There's someone really wonderful out there waiting for you" he offers.

Tom attempts to smile, but misery takes over. His features crumple. He draws a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing furiously at his cheeks. "I've already found him" he sobs.

"No, love. Someone who actually deserves you."

He gives in and hugs the man tightly. Tom’s hands linger, tears flowing even more readily when his love pulls away. Distance was set between them, and that was it.

Ed accompanies him to his car. Waves him off, though he felt foolish doing so. He’d just broken the poor soul’s heart, and here he was bidding him goodbye like he’d just popped around for tea.

It had to be done, though. It was a great shame. He really _had_ loved Tom. He’d been there when he needed him most.

But now he had Roger.

Ed had been certain before that Roger would break up with Debbie. He believed it wholly, with every fibre of his being. He trusted the drummer to do the right thing, as he’d done.

A pessimistic voice picks up in the back of his mind, the product of so many years of emotional turmoil. Roger _would_ make the right decision, wouldn’t he? He’d choose _him_?

Ed steadies himself, staring blankly at the space on the driveway Tom’s car had once occupied.

Yes, Roger _would_ choose him.

* * *

Erica tries to angle up onto the very tips of her toes. There was a part of the wall she couldn’t quite reach with the paint roller. Immediately, pain seeps into her joints. She’s brought back down to size feeling thoroughly _sore_. She grumbles to herself. Why was everything so much harder while pregnant? Did she not suffer enough?

Roger slips into the studio quietly. He watches her paint for a while, visibly distracted.

”You could give me a hand, you know” she swipes.

The drummer springs to life. He steps nimbly between the paint pots, setting down the plastic bag he holds, and takes the roller from her hand. While she gathers herself, he spreads messy stripes of white over the brick. It takes a few swipes to realize he’s painting over what was to his eyes already decent paintwork.

”Don’t you have a team for this stuff?” he asks.

She did. She and Ed had taken redecoration efforts on their new studio seriously. It had been too big to manage themselves.

”I wasn’t quite happy with what they’d done” she confesses.

Roger chuckles. “You and John are made for each other” he remarks. Erica quirks a brow, smiling fondly at the mention of her husband. “You’re both _stubborn_.”

Some assumed, when they considered Erica and John, that there must be an element of _opposites attract_. After all, she was unapologetically brash and he was notoriously modest. The people who didn’t _know_ John completely missed the self-assurance in him. The devastating wit he possessed, lethal when in the right mood.

”You and Ed are very similar too” Erica says.

” _Handsome_ , yeah” Roger quips.

”You’ve both got an ego the size of _Buckingham Palace_ , for a start” the woman snorts, “But you’re also _funny_ and _genuine_. You care about the things that matter. And you can have a fucking good laugh together.”

”Is cackling like kids over stupid things a good sign of compatibility?” Roger questions, baby blue eyes sparkling mischievously, “In that case, _I_ should have married John.”

“Tear him from my cold, dead hands, Taylor.”

A hearty chortle throws his paint strokes off. He corrects himself quickly. He’d got into the flow of it smoothly, so much so he’d entirely forgotten it wasn’t what he’d dropped by to do.

” _Seriously_ though. Being able to have a good laugh means everything. Now especially.”

They share a sad look, understanding silently that the sentiment applied to each other as well as their partners. The entire gang would have to rely one one another as Fred’s days grew shorter.

”Are you off out somewhere?” Erica suddenly notices how smartly the drummer is dressed. She eases herself back onto her feet and takes the paint roller back, conscious of him getting anything on his suit.

”Meeting Deb in town” Roger reveals.

Erica’s heart sinks. Not _again_. She’s about to launch herself at the man for leading her friend on _another_ fucking time when he holds his hands up defensively.

”To _break up_ with her.”

She exhales in relief. Thank _God_. Maybe he and Ed would last for good this time?

Another thought strikes her. She aims a light slap at the man’s forearm.

”You’re breaking up with her in a public place?” she tuts.

”Best way to minimize the damage” Roger reasons. He ducks when she goes to hit him again. “You’re as bad as Brian.”

”You’ve been with her for _years_. You have a _kid_ with her” Erica explains, dumbfounded that he’d even approach such a thing so haphazardly, “ _Please_ , do it privately. Debbie deserves that.”

Roger considers it slowly, then nods.

”You’re right. I’ll call her and ask me meet at home.”

She steadies him with a hug. There’s a brief panic afterward as they check whether she’d got paint on him. “This blazer is expensive!” he’d yelped.

Blessedly, he was paint free, and ready to go and pursue the love of his life.

Erica picks up the plastic bag he’d left behind and holds it out to him.

”That’s for you” the drummer details, “John said you needed rations.”

Erica peers inside. The bag contained three sizeable bags of her favorite potato chips, her greatest craving while pregnant, and two LPs.

She’d had her record player on as she painted, the volume turned right up now she had the building to herself. A handful of vinyl had been discovered in an abandoned cupboard. Mainly jazz stuff, which didn’t impress her over much.

In a daze as she left the house, she’d randomly selected three records from the family collection. John’s funk albums. She’d grooved her way through her work most happily.

”Some good stuff in there” Roger points out.

”Mainly your own” Erica notes.

The drummer grins, then heads out. He plays on her mind as she decides on a record. She liked Debbie, as they all did. The model had expected a lifetime of happiness with Roger. Perhaps more children. It didn’t look as though she’d get it.

Sympathetic as she was, Erica couldn’t deny she was more relieved than she was disappointed. She’d watched Ed pine after the man for so long. At last, they’d finally be _settled_. Her friend would be happy.

She giggles to herself. She and Brian would never have to play as therapists for the pair ever again, with any luck.

Roger having left her purely with Queen albums, she picks out _News of the World_. Probably her second favorite, after _The Game_.

She lowers the needle and lets the disc spin for a few numbers. She swipes the paint on the wall in time with the drumbeat during _We Will Rock You_. She’d started off clapping along, roller in hand, but that sent paint flying everywhere.

She catches sight of her watch. It was getting late. She missed her daughter. She missed John.

”Sorry, Brian” she mutters, skipping one of his numbers. She needed to hear one of John’s songs. Let his wonderful lyrics speak to her.

_Sammy was low_

_Just watching the show_

_Over and over again_

_Spread Your Wings_ felt poignant given the group’s recent struggles.   
  
_Knew it was time_

_He made up his mind_

_To leave his dead life behind_

It was the appropriate song to work to. Here she was, in a building she and Ed had bought in order to do things _their_ way, listening to the tale John had told back in ‘77.

_His boss said to him_

_Boy, you’d better begin_

_To get those crazy notions right out of your head_

Mr. Michaels creeps out from the dark recesses of her memories. The walking fossil who’d resented her and Ed simply for _being_. There had been similar characters along the way.

_Sammy, boy, who do you think that you are?_

The question had been thrown at Erica too many times to count. Ed suffered the same. So many had tried to cut them down to size. In retrospect, the pressure had been good for them. They would never have thought to go independent without it.

She stops painting for a moment and waddles back over to her seat.

Maybe there was something in that? I way to link the song to this new company of theirs? It fitted too well to ignore.

 _Emerald Bar Productions_?

 _No_. The Emerald Bar was the place Sammy wanted to escape.

Perhaps the company ought to be named for _Sammy_? Perhaps not. She and Ed would be asked who _Sammy_ was every interview they had.

 _Wings_? Erica shudders. There was a band from the 70s she was eager to forget.

_Now listen boy_

_You’re always dreamin’_

_You’ve got no real ambition_

_You won’t get very far_

She feels a sharp kick bounce off her stomach. An uneasy feeling riddles its way into her gut, the baby conducting careless somersaults.

Erica hovers between a groan and a grin. She wonders whether it’s the music they’re responding to, or if they just thrived on causing her discomfort.

”That’s your dad’s song” she says, rubbing her belly. The baby kicks again. “Christ, I’m tired.”

The needle on the record player skips, the point worn down. “ _Damn thing_ ”. She leans across to return it to its original place. She ends up returning to a verse she’d already heard but she doesn’t mind.

_You’ve got no real ambition_

_You won’t get very far_

_Lightbulb moment_. One so real, in fact, Erica pats stupidly at the top of her head, certain she’ll find one flashing brilliantly there. _Fuck_ , she really _was_ tired, wasn’t she?

She and Ed _had_ got far. They _had_ real ambition.

_Real Ambition._

There. That was the company.

She’s feeling quite pleased with herself until the baby launches a tiny leg against her insides again.

”Oh, _alright_ ” she sighs, “Home it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading as always! Feel free to leave a comment :)


	35. Fairytale of London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Christmas 1990!
> 
> Have a love scene and a proposal as a gift x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I've only written one Christmas-themed chapter before! It's such fun.
> 
> There's no angst in this one. Just love :-)

The snowball cuts through the air in slow motion. Erica swears can see it’s every agile rotation. Like an icy missile it barrels across the yard. The impact is underwhelming. It lands with a soft patter against her John’s hip.

He turns to face her, scandalized. He’d been occupied putting the finishing touches on a snowman. He’d protested claims he was in competition with the kids for the best sculpture. Then he’d spent three hours getting the head to hold the right shape.

”How _dare_ you” John wheezes, clutching his heart dramatically, “Interrupting an artist while he’s working. For shame, woman.”

Erica crouches down to gather more snow in her hand. John bolts over to her before she can press it into a ball. Like children, they chase one another across the lawn. They skid to a halt when they spot the babysitter hovering by the patio door. George, now a headstrong three-year-old, clings to the woman’s pants, gazing out at the snow with wide-eyes.

The cold nipping at them, the couple retreat indoors. John sits his daughter on his knee and points to his snowman, describing to her how the creation would come alive on Christmas Eve.

The babysitter hands a bundle of warm blankets to Erica. “There’s my little boy” she coos, peeling back the material to reveal a round, rosy-cheeked face.

The baby yawns and opens his eyes. Grey-green like John’s. Like George, he’d inherited his mother’s black hair. A handful of curls cling to his scalp. He was _beautiful_. A little angel.

 _Arthur_. Named after John’s late father.

He was seventh months old already. He’d been born a month early, eager to get out and see the world. Indeed, he’d been delivered in record time. Erica had ended up spending several days in hospital recuperating, such was the shock of it.

It was worth it. _Oh_ , she hated carrying children but she adored everything about them once they were _out_. They made her life complete in a way she’d never anticipated.

Being a mother, now to _two_ , was a joy. Being a wife was wonderful, too. She and John had officially reached the five-year mark now. They’d been married for three. It was almost frightening how quickly the years rolled on.

Their babysitter heads home, a present from the Deacons tucked under her arm. It would be family only until the New Year. This was their special time. A chance to enjoy the festive season as a tight little unit.

Except for the company Christmas party, of course. A treat for _Real Ambition_ 's staff after a successful inaugural year.

And _Freddie's_ Christmas party. It was to be scaled down considerably in comparison to his usual bashes. Just the band and their families were invited. The people he and Jim trusted.

"What have you got for Ed and Roger?"

"Passes for the Monaco Grand Prix next year. You?"

"Depeche Mode tickets. I also promised Rog I'd let The Cross play on the show" Erica relates. John snickers.

He shakes his daughter's little fist, drawing her attention away from the Christmas tree and over to him. "What would you like from Santa, sweetheart?"

George's eyes light up at the mention of the man. She wriggles excitedly on her father's lap. She tugs at Erica's sleeve too, demanding full focus. "Turtles" she declares, bearing a toothy grin. Her parents exchange a puzzled look. "Turtles!" George repeats. She slides off John's lap and attempts what she thought was a Kung-fu move. Erica has to catch her so she doesn't topple onto the coffee table.

" _Ninja Turtles_ " she fills in.

The cartoon was popular in the Deacon household. George understood little of what occurred each episode, but she appreciated the colors. Often she and John would sit down with the children while it was on. It was genuinely very good. The pair of them even had a favorite Ninja Turtle.

George hops back up onto the couch, snuggling in between her parents. She peers into Arthur's cocoon. The baby peers up at his sister curiously. He giggles when the girl pulls a face, turning the tip of her nose up and oinking. "New brother" she babbles.

"He's been here for seventh months already, love" Erica reminds her gently.

John grins at his daughter as though she'd just said something magical. He extends the smile to his wife, eyes sparkling wonderfully in the fading light. "I think she's saying she wants another one" he says.

Erica shifts in her seat. Her middle tightens at the very idea. She was certain she'd still not quite recovered _down there_. "Well, I know what I'm treating _myself_ to this Christmas."

John lays a hand on her knee, squeezing teasingly. With his other hand, he tickles little Arthur's chin, presumably off dreaming up some other reality where there were a dozen more babies to care for. "What's that?" he asks.

" _Birth control pills_."

* * *

"We've got _gatecrashers_." Ed cackles through the revelation as though it was the funniest thing in the world. Erica tenses up.

Their company's Christmas bash was intended for staff and their partners. Then various acts they knew had heard about the event and just happened to be in town while it was on. They'd had to open up another room of the studio to house all the alcohol brought along. Rick Parfitt from Status Quo had suggested setting up another for drugs. Erica had suggested he get stoned in the back alley like everyone else.

"Who is it now?" she murmurs.

Ed steps aside to reveal a new group entering the main room, all leather-clad, slightly fierce in appearance. They were the kind she'd made fond friends with in L.A. She feels her heart stop when she recognizes one of the faces.

"Is that-"

" _Joan Jett_."

The singer notices the pair gawking and winks casually. Erica feels her heels wobble from under her.

"Christ, she's _hot_ " she exhales.

"Go for it" Ed invites, jerking his head in the other woman's direction. He slaps his own wrist. "Actually, no. Please don't chat anyone up."

Erica quirks a brow suspiciously. "Since when did you have such respect for marriage?" she questions. Her friend tuts at her. It was a low blow. Especially since he and Roger seemed to be sticking to their relationship this time around. The more she saw of the couple, the more the unsettling truth that they were _maturing_ sank in.

"I'm a _God-fearing man_ , what can I say" Ed speaks coyly, flipping back a blonde lock of hair. "And I think I may be joining that particular institution soon". He regards his wedding finger. It was bandless so far, though the way he gazed at it suggested it wouldn't remain so for long. "Where did you and John get your wedding bands, out of interest?"

Erica squeals and dives into her friend's chest. With strength she didn't know she possessed, she swings him about. Ed embraces the motion, waving his arms aloft like a graceful swan. "You're going to give Roger a wedding ring?" she asks.

Ed nods, freckled cheeks flushing a gorgeous pink. "Time I made an honest man of him."

Erica kisses his cheek fondly. She searches the peripheral for Roger, eager to smother him in affection too. She remembers she'd seen the drummer sneak off with Dep Leppard out into the back alley. It had become the most populated area of the party. She didn't like to tell them she'd been joking in what she said to Rick Parfitt.

 _Fuck it_. She'd probably end up there herself before the night was through.

"We got ours from the same jewelers as Fred and Jim" she says, wiggling her own gold band proudly. It still shone as it had that beautiful afternoon in 1987, when John had slid it over her knuckle. She shudders. There was a memory neither time nor illness would ever take away.

And now it seemed, _finally_ , her friend would be able to share her joy.

"Think I'll splash out" Ed muses, "My reward. We've been making a profit for _four months in a row_ now."

Erica raises her drink to him in celebration. The fledgling days of the company had been stressful. They'd managed to get the TV show aired on the BBC, but had unestimated the work involved now they produced everything themselves. They employed an entire army. As such, the costs were high. Thankfully, with their popularity amongst viewers never wavering, they'd won the battle.

The show was back in the States, too, and had also branched out to other countries. Canada, Australia, Japan. All over the world, they were stars.

 _Real Ambition_ was a roaring success. They'd even been approached by would-be comedians in hopes of having their own shows produced. They'd had to hire someone just to sort through the screenplays and proposals sent their way. Everyone wanted a slice of their success.

It was satisfying. Fuck that. _Exhilarating_. It made the years of inner torture worth it.

"I'm off to plan my wedding" Ed sings, skipping away merrily.

Someone catches Erica's attention before she can be swarmed again. She had contemplated approaching Joan Jett, with _totally_ pure intentions, but there were demons beckoning her elsewhere.

The rusting iron door to the back alley creaks open, and there stand a host of unsavory characters. _Naturally_ , some of her greatest friends.

" _Come on_ , Deacon" Duff McKagan entreats, "I've got a blunt here with your name on it."

"Watch it, mate, she'll smoke rings around you" Roger cautions, "Quite literally."

"Let's go, doll" Duff challenges.

"You're on". Erica downs the remainder of her whiskey and confidently strides over to the group.

* * *

She'd _won_. By a mile, in the end. Duff gave in barely thirty minutes after his initial challenge. The next morning, of course, Erica had wondered whether they were all, in fact, _losers_. Sobering up became more of a headache the older she got. Long gone were the days when she could gulp down an entire bottle of JD and puff away until higher than the clouds, fresh-faced and ready to learn by the time her morning university lecture arrived.

John hadn't been overly impressed. Oddly enough, her pleas that it was _Christmas_ didn't really work. She'd arrived home in the early hours, off her face. She was quite sure she'd have got away with it if he hadn't fallen into a potted plant in the hallway. The pottery had shattered, and a shrill cry had followed from Arthur's room. George had followed suit, envious of the attention that would surely be lauded on her brother.

The days had passed, Erica had recovered, and the big day drew near. John hadn't stayed mad for long, in the end. They'd returned to normal domestic life, blissful and sweet.

There was something about the festive period that made their bond as a family even stronger. It wasn't often Erica went in for a cliche, but there was something healing about that time. Of course, a conscious effort had been made this year to _enjoy_ themselves. 1990 had been cruel in places. Freddie's sickness was unrelenting. Indeed, Jim had confessed in a tearful fit that this would most likely be Fred's _last_ Christmas.

Everyone was determined to enjoy it as best they could. The Christmas do at Garden Lodge would be the perfect end to a taxing year.

"I think someone at the work party gave me their germs" Erica laments, emerging from her shower with a towel wrapped around her. There was a dryness in her throat and a stuffiness in her sinuses that made her uncomfortable. Her body ached, too. She hated the idea of being sick over the holidays. There was Freddie to consider, too. His immune system was very low, despite the medication given to him.

" _Joan Jett_ 's work, perhaps" John swipes. He spoke with good spirit, but his jealousy was easily detectable. Erica blushes. She'd not done anything untoward, just _flirted_ a little. And murmured rather filthy things about the singer in her sleep. "Ed's got a big mouth" he clears up.

"If I had a pound for every man who'd ever said that, I'd be a very rich woman."

John chuckles warmly. "Your little nose is rosy" he notes, touching the bright-red tip of it fondly. He pulls out a Santa hat from an unwashed pile of work threads and sets it atop her hair. "You're adorable."

Erica pouts. "I don't feel it". She considers the dress hanging on the door of her closet. It was of a deep crimson, tight and velvety. She'd worn it nine Christmasses in a row now. It had been a point of pride with her this year that she could, _just about_ , fit in it. The zipper required encouragement as it reached her hips. She'd been kind to herself. She'd carried two children, after all. Developing a few lumps and bumps was natural, and something she'd worked hard to embrace.

"You look like a sweet little Christmas gift wrapped up in that towel" John ribs. He settles on the edge of the bed, admiring her in all her damp post-shower, flu-riddled glory.

Erica coughs hoarsely, then attempts a sultry pose. She toys with the tie of the fabric, stopping just as it threatened rto unravel. "You can unwrap me if you like" she invites. She steps over to her husband, swinging her hips. John finds her waist quickly, slowly brushing the tassels up and down. "It's not Christmas day yet," he says, "I've heard opening presents early is a _very_ naughty thing to do."

Erica shrugs. "Guess you won't be making the nice list this year."

"I can't think of any more festive innuendo" John admits.

"Nor me."

"Best get on with it then, eh?"

"Very romantic stuff, John."

Fed up of waiting, she lets the towel pool around her ankles. John gapes at her as though just seeing her for the first time. His breath catches in his throat, a low whistle escaping his lips. "God _Almighty_ " he emits, hands itching at his sides. He didn't know where to start.

Erica guides him to her hips, encouraging him to caress the skin there. He does so, gentle and patient. He runs a hand over her curves. He swipes his tongue over his lips, pupils blowing up in size, and she can tell he's _worshipping_ her in his head. "You're beautiful" he utters, leaning over to press a kiss to her navel. His grip moves to her bare behind, squeezing roughly, and his mouth moves lower, inch by inch.

"You're _far_ too good at that" Erica hums. He eases her closer to him. Lets her feel his work more intensely. He grunts when fingers are threaded through his curls. He loved having his hair played with, particularly now there was now so much grey in it. His wife _adored_ the grey.

It had worried him initially. Stress had made the gap between their ages appear greater than it was. Articles about Mrs. Deacon and her 'mature' husband had made him feel self-conscious. She looked so _youthful_ , so _radiant_. Voices in his head had reminded him that he'd never again be the attractive dandy he'd been in the 70s. But then Erica would make him feel _good_ about himself. To her, he was damn right _sexy_.

The pretty moans tumbling from her lips stoke his ego. His hold on her remains strong. The Devil resting on his shoulder urged him to throw her onto the mattress and take her there. He resists. He took his time, working her artfully until she releases, trembling.

The room spinning, Erica pushes him onto his back. She tugs at his pajama pants and sinks to her knees.

"Where are you off to?" John asks. He knew damn well what her plan was. It excited him so much he's certain he'll make a fool of himself the second her mouth reached his skin.

"Well, _season of goodwill_ and all" Erica plays.

"I thought you'd run out of innuendoes". His words struggle to string together coherently. With an unforgiving touch, she'd grasped him. Erica grins mischievously as his head falls back onto the covers. She massages him, not once taking her big, brown eyes off him.

"I lied" she purrs, "Very bad, _lying_. Perhaps you ought to punish me?"

John barely returns her gaze. The prospect alone almost finished him. Knuckles a raw white, bedsheets balled up in his palm, he paces himself. " _Please_ " he begs, too turned on to register how needy he sounded.

Erica wets her lips. She smacks them together with a satisfying _pop,_ then lowers herself over his lap _._ " _Yes_ , Habibi."

* * *

"Oh, get a _room_ ". Roger pushes past the Deacons. The couple barely notice. They were happily wrapped around one another under the mistletoe, pausing only to check the children were okay.

George was content playing with the drummer's youngest. They'd both found a plethora of _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ merchandise waiting for them under the tree. There had been a brief spat initially, as fierce as two toddlers could manage, because they couldn't decide who ought to control each turtle. Brian had intervened and handed George the Michaelangelo and Donatello figures. Rufus got Raphael and Leonardo.

Another negotiation had to be undertaken when the May children insisted on taking part.

Arthur had fallen asleep in Freddie's arms. The baby had been quite alarmed when one of the Mercury's cats leaped near him. Fred had soothed him with a lullaby. The entire room had fallen quiet in the end, totally enchanted by the man's voice. He'd ended up nodding off too, comforted by good company and a hearty meal. He wears the slippers Erica had given him. They were shaped like cats and _meowed_ with every step he took.

He snaps awake just as Brian and Anita's rendition of ' _Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree_ ' comes to an end. "Jim!" he beckons, "Get Ed's gift!"

Jim nods dutifully. Ed hovers about puzzled while the man is away. Everyone gathers near when a neatly wrapped parcel is placed on the coffee table. Ed searches for an opening in the paper, cautious of tearing it open too manically. It was weighty and delicate. He has to peel through a layer of bubble wrap before he can discover what lies inside.

"Jim's own work" Fred compliments. The Irishman blushes.

Polished ebony had been crafted into an ornate display case. A crystal glass lid could be lifted to reveal cushioned bedding.

"You said you wanted something to put your sobriety chips in."

Ed searches for a cheap joke, his default in such situations, but words fail him. Tears spill readily from his eyes. He makes a poor show of trying to hide them. Roger offers a tissue for him to dry his cheeks. "It's beautiful" he praises. He knew exactly where he'd place each chip. His mother had told he shouldn't make a show of such things. _Fuck that_. Getting sober had been a struggle he was proud to have conquered.

"Thank you" he gushes, pulling the husbands into a tight embrace. He catches sight of Freddie's wedding ring as he pulls away. He snaps in the air and hurries into the hall. There's a series of rustles and crackles as he searches through his bag. Erica feels her heart leap against her chest.

Ed had waited until they were all together to make his proposal. They'd been witness to the and Roger's many ups and downs. Now they'd be privy to the romantic finale.

Roger takes advantage of his boyfriend's absence. He'd kept his own gift slightly closer to home. From his jacket pocket, he extracts a small, rectangular package. He checks his hair a final time in the mirror above the fireplace and shifts on the spot nervously.

The others peer at the drummer curiously. Conversations falter, everyone anticipating a _big moment_. "What the fuck are you lot looking at?" the blonde dismisses. They pretend to sip at their drinks until Ed reemerges.

He carries a similar box. 

Where Roger hesitated, Ed strode forward. "Now I'm at the grand old age of twenty-eight, I think it's high time I made a commitment" he states.

"Funny you should say that" the drummer voices.

Both boxes open at the same time. The other guests cheekily sneak nearer so they could view what lay within.

The couple presents to each other a pair of gold rings. The bands were identical in size and cut. Erica glances at her own, as do Freddie and Jim. All of them possessed the exact same kind. It appeared Ed wasn't the only one who'd sought recommendations in the run-up to the big day.

"Oh," Ed snorts, "Would you look at that."

"We should have coordinated this, shouldn't we?" Roger grins.

"I don't think so. We can wear one pair on our toes or something."

A strange moment passes as they struggle to decide who should move first. Roger takes the initiative, extracting one of the bands from his gift and holding it out to his partner. He clears his throat loudly. " _Ed_ ," he says, "I-"

Erica sneezes. She mumbles an apology to the couple, embarrassed. The vows barely make it through the first sentence when she sneezes again. She almost curses when she feels a cough developing in her throat. With great effort, she suppresses it. No amount of flu would ruin the moment. John conceals a snicker behind his hand. " _Trust you_."

"I know what the law says, and any commitment we make can be in name only, but I-" The drummer swears loudly, a heavy sweat coating his brow. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you". He takes Ed's hand in his and positions the ring near his wedding finger. "So, how does being _Mr. Taylor_ sound?"

Ed takes out one of his own rings and follows suit. "I don't care for _Mr. Taylor_. _Mr. Tetley_ , however-" He laughs warmly at the face his lover pulls. "The name doesn't matter."

They slide the bands over their knuckles and seal the bond with a kiss. The rest of the group cheer. Arthur gargles, woken abruptly by the sound. George claps her hands together clumsily. She offers a Ninja Turtle to her uncles, a wedding gift presumably. Ed holds it to his chest like a bouquet.

Roger's eyes glimmer animatedly. "Are we, like, _husbands_ now?"

"I suppose we are."

Reaching out to Jim for support, Freddie eases himself into a standing position. He approaches the newlyweds slowly, cat slippers meowing cheerfully beneath his feet. He passes Arthur back to his parents when he notices the baby's bottom lip quiver. "Some will think you're silly for what you've done. I suppose there is something slightly ridiculous about it " he declares, aiming a fond expression at his own husband, "But it's _real_. As genuine as any other marriage. Remember that."

"Cheers, Fred" Roger replies, kissing his friend's cheek. 

Congratulations are passed around. All take the time to express their relief that the pair were finally in it for the long haul. Anita is particularly impressed, not just because the display made her proud to know the boys. With any luck, it would put a stop to all the grumpy visits Roger made to hers and Brian's home whenever he had a relationship crisis.

"My boy's all grown up" Erica jokes, though she wept unashamedly. "Not this one though. You'll always be my little angel" she coos, readjusting the soft cap on her tiny son's head. George wobbles her way over to her parents. She wraps her arms around John's right leg. "Oh God, I don't want either of them to grow up."

"We've a few years before that, love" John comforts, pecking her forehead, "And if you like _babies_ so much, we could always have another one". He wiggles his eyebrows hopefully.

Erica rolls her eyes, though a smile tugs at her lips. " _We'll see_."

Brian tickles the keys of the piano. "How about a little music for your first dance?" he asks. Anita joins him on the stool. They decide on a festive duet, one of the tracks that had dominated the airwaves every holiday ever since it came out. ' _Fairytale of New York_ '. The story it told was refreshingly complicated. So many Christmas songs boasted sugar-sweet romances, perfect and innocent.

The relationship the gang celebrated at that moment had been neither of those things. It had been rocky. Erratic. Yet it had endured. And, as Fred had said, it was _real_.

Ed spins Roger around gracefully. They settle in a waltz position, their form shaky, not that they cared.

_The boys of the NYPD choir_

_Were singing Galway Bay_

_And the bells were ringing out_

_For Christmas day_

The Mercurys, the Deacons, the Mays and now the Taylors (or _Tetleys,_ depending on who was asked) were all together. 1991 could throw whatever it wanted at them. The unknown didn't frighten a single soul in Garden Lodge that night.

Everything was as it was meant to be, thank _God_.


	36. Montreux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed and Erica join the band for recording sessions in Switzerland, and reflect on how it all began for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scenes go in a flashback to present day pattern in this chapter. It's been nice to revisit those early days!
> 
> Songs in this chapter:
> 
> A Winter's Tale by Queen

Erica had left the airplane barely three minutes ago and had already managed to embarrass herself. The mistake wasn’t quite humiliating enough to register amongst 1985’s greatest foibles, but it still made her cheeks glow.

Her suitcase had split at the seams as she rolled it through Munich airport. It had taken a good few strides for her to notice. Half her wardrobe now scraped the floor, and one of her favorite scarves had got caught in the luggage wheel.

The kind man she’d been so distracted chatting to bends down to help her gather her things. “Damn thing” she curses, “Serves me right. This case is ancient.”

”Why not buy another?” John asks. He scoops up a handful of clothes for her. A petite sports bra slips from the pile and back onto the tiles. He bites his lip, visibly awkward. Erica notices. Oh, _God_. Did he look as though he was gawking? Did she think he was a pervert?

He definitely wasn’t. Not that the image of her _jogging_ in it, chest bouncing lightly with every stride, hadn’t crossed his mind.

”I can’t afford a new one” Erica replies, “Every spare penny I’ve got goes into enjoying myself.”

John studies her, intrigued. “What does that entail?” he queries.

”You’re the _rockstar_. I’m sure you’ve got a pretty good idea” the woman says. She's successful in stuffing her clothes back into the case, away from prying eyes. She carries it the rest of the way, not wanting to risk another incident.

“I don’t know. I’m not much of one.”

The wealth, the drugs, the sex. It had never been of enormous appeal to him. He enjoyed himself, certainly, but never to excess. Though the prospect of Erica indulging in such a lifestyle left him feeling a particular type of way. He surprised himself. He’d always been attracted to women who were modest and level-headed.

Everything he’d seen of the journalist so far suggested a free spirit. Youthful chaos incarnate. John blushes. He liked it. A _lot_.

“What sort of mischief will we get up to here, do you reckon?” Erica ponders, regaining her confident air.

She nods to the pair walking up front. Roger and Ed, those ever deceptive troublemakers, conspiring and giggling like two schoolboys. They’d pulled a series of pranks on the plane. The pilot had threatened to drop them into the English Channel if they didn’t behave.

And when they weren’t cooking up mischief, they were flirting. Their companions had noticed that they didn’t _just_ do it when they knew the others were watching, so it wasn't just a cheap ploy for attention. Still, they weren’t _actually_ attracted to one another, were they? _No_ , Erica had decided, they were both happy with their respective partners. Nothing would come of it.

“This is a work trip” John reminds her, though he’s grinning like an idiot. The group would be in Munich for months. He had all that time to get to know this fascinating, beautiful woman who'd stepped so unwittingly into all their lives back at _Live Aid_. There was an album to make, too. But mainly a girl to fall in love with.

Erica jerks her head. “Yeah, but we’ve got to do something silly, haven’t we?” she reasons cheekily, “It would be a shame not to.”

John clears his throat. “ _We_ as in the group. Or _we_ as in-“ He points to himself then her. He could have sworn she’s blushing too now.

With big brown eyes, she pins him to the spot, dark lashes batting invitingly. “ _We_ ” she asserts. _Me and you_.

Her chest heaves beneath tight breaths, so excited as she was by the idea of spending time with him, one on one. Inadvertently John’s focus drifts there. He corrects himself before she can catch him.

Christ, what was the matter with him? He’d been so _cool_ up to now.

“ _Well_ ” he utters, voice dropping low, “I’m sure we can find something interesting to do together.”  
  
He’s amazed he doesn’t kiss her right there when she winks at him.

”I look forward to it, John.”

* * *

The Taylors cuddle up together, sprawled over an entire row of seats. It was lucky the jet's interior was spacious. They had a habit of dominating entire sections, largely because they found it impossible to do things independently. Whether it was going to the toilet, which Erica suspected was a half-arsed excuse for blowing one another every thirty minutes, or fixing a snack, they _had_ to be together. It was sweet. Married life treated them well.

A pocket of turbulence rouses the kids from their slumber. Erica groans. It had taken almost half the journey to get her children to settle down. They'd never been on a plane before. Arthur, tiny as he was, had been unnerved by the sound of the engine. George had been fascinated by the view initially, then got restless. John was patient as ever. He'd happily kept the two calm while his wife steadied herself with weak whiskey and cokes. 

"Won't be much mischief this time around, will there?" she sighs. She'd never have been able to leave the children behind in England, but she wasn't sure how navigating parental duties at the same time as work ones would pan out. She'd been entirely unattached when she and Ed joined the band in Munich, back in 1985. She was ashamed of how sad it made her.

"I'm sure we'll find something" John offers. He'd have invited his entire brood over to Switzerland if he'd been able. Ronnie had ruled it out in the end, concerned about what the extended stay would do to their kids' schoolwork.

Children were one of his greatest joys in life. Very little cheered him up as much as being a father did. And by _God_ , he needed cheering up some days.

"Back in the studio _already_ " he realizes, exhaling loudly, "The other record's only been out for five minutes."

 _Innuendo_ had stormed right to the number one spot. It had achieved the remarkable feat of replacing _The Game_ as Erica's favorite. She'd even declared that the title track was superior to _Bohemian Rhapsody_. The entire album made spectacular listening. Eclectic, genius, camp, heart-wrenching. Everything a Queen album ought to be.

Freddie's vocals were of particular note. He sang as well as he'd ever done. Hit the most impossible notes with barely any effort. He was dying and was still leagues ahead of every other singer of his era.

It had been his idea to start recording again. He was desperately weak but hadn't given up just yet. While there was still breath in him, he'd keep working. The others tagged along wholeheartedly. The passion they had for their art hadn't wavered. It was enough to still _be_ with Freddie. Spending day after day with him, _creating_ with him; those were the memories they wanted to hold with them when the inevitable arrived.

Jim made a loving nurse. Erica tries not to burst into tears as she watches the man clutch his husband's hand, tissue at the ready should Fred suffer another horrendous coughing fit. Freddie had drifted to sleep not long after the plane left London. Leaving the house had required considerable energy. The band had agreed on a weekend of rest before they started recording.

Erica digs the notes she'd made from her bag. It was a work trip for her and Ed, too.

Joining the band for the _Magic_ sessions in Munich had been the genesis for so much. There _the gang_ had formed in earnest. They'd gone from friends to firm family. Ed and Roger had started their romance. John and Erica had struck up a love from which they'd gained a successful marriage and two children.

The latest season of their TV show out across the world and musical appetites whetted by the release of _Innuendo_ , desire for another joint project had risen.

Just as they had in 1985, Ed and Erica would curate a documentary about the band's latest venture. There was no rigid concept for an album this time around. They'd create as and when ideas emerged. The journalists would record the process and, when the work was done, share their findings in installments.

" _Habibi_?" Erica notices her husband's features contort sorrowfully from the corner of her eye. Seized by his own thoughts, his focus had drifted from Arthur and George over to the vacant seat opposite. There was nothing about the chair that interested him. It was just somewhere to stare while his mind whispered depressing things. "Are you okay?"

She has to repeat the question before John wakes up. When he does, he forces a smile. A chesty splutter from Freddie automatically draws his attention. He bows his head, the smile tightening. He wanted to seem cheerful for the kids, wanted them to carry on beaming up at them as they always did. He knew Erica saw right through him, but he didn't feel like pouring his heart out. _Stubbornness_ is his defense mechanism of choice. "I'm fine, love" he insists.

* * *

"Do you think they're fucking?"

"I think they're recording a track at this particular moment."

Ed rolls his eyes. "Not _Brian and Fred_ " he tuts, " _Erica and John_."

Roger looks up from the neat lines he'd been laying out on the table. He scratches his chin with a rolled-up banknote. "I'm not sure. He's married" he opinionates, "Affairs aren't really his thing". He takes a deep breath before vacuuming up one of the lines, barely a grain left behind.

Ed accepts the banknote. His turn. "Not like you then" Roger pretends to be offended. "Everyone knows you can't keep it in your pants."

"Takes one to know one, Tetley."

They sit back, waiting for the high to hit. The buzz they both sought doesn't arrive, so they go in for seconds. Ed arranges a particularly substantial bump for himself. The drummer protests the waste but is then reminded that the journalist makes nowhere near as much money and therefore deserved a treat.

"Have you ever got off with her? She's a good-looking girl" Roger voices. He shakes himself violently, a ripple of intense energy starting to pass through him. Ed usually enjoyed depravity but the remark unsettled him. "Men and women are allowed to be friends" he grimaces, "Besides, I'm _gay"._ Roger nods graciously, recognizing the error he'd made.

"I've never been with a man" he blurts.

His companion hesitates. "Because you've never found the right one or because you aren't into it?"

"Not sure."

A hopeful spark lights up in Ed. He frowns, though quickly evens out his countenance when Roger mistakes it for disapproval.

"I just mean, I’d be interested in what it’s like” he counters, withdrawing suddenly, “I’m not attracted to blokes or anything.”

Ed’s heart sinks. Again, he’s bewildered. Why should he care? He had plenty of male friends who were gay or bi, so it wasn’t the company of similar minds he craved. _Oh, God_. He actually _liked_ Roger, didn’t he? In a _more than friends_ way?

"If I had to pick a guy" Roger rattles on. The blue in his eyes shrank, replaced by huge, intoxicated pupils. He seemingly had no idea of the confusing web he spins for himself. "It’d probably be Bowie."

"Good choice" Ed mumbles, too distracted by the rude emergence of _feelings_ toward the drummer.

"Or you."

Ed chokes in shock, sending a cloud of white billowing upward. Roger sniffs frantically in the air, not a drop wasted. The coke had hit. He was on another planet. Ed intended to join him there. Anything to escape the uncomfortable notion that they might genuinely fancy one another.

"If you had to pick a girl, who would it be?" Roger asks mischievously, oblivious to the startling confession he'd just made. He sat nearer, though. Their knees practically touched. Ed directs all the restraint his barely-sober brain left to him into not pressing further. He'd trick himself into thinking Roger was only playing for now. The deep soul-searching would come later.

" _You"_ he decides, wanting to keep up the jovial vibe _._

"I’m a bloke!"

"I meant you in the _I Want to Break Free_ video."

* * *

The view from the studio is breathtaking. For miles, Lake Geneva seemed to roll on. On the taxi ride over, the couple's driver, recognizing them as tourists, had revealed that it went on for a good seventy-three kilometers. It would take at least two days to cycle its perimeter, a popular choice for more adventurous visitors, they'd discovered.

The band had visited Switzerland several times before. Indeed, they'd bought the studio outright some ten years ago. _The Game_ , _Hot Space_ , even parts of _The Works_. They'd all begun their genesis at the swanky recording facility, tucked away within the outbuilding of a popular casino. Their usual engineers called it home. Each member had homes they regularly rented out in the district. John was no exception.

He'd booked his usual residence for the stay, barely ten minutes up the road. It wasn't overly ostentatious, that not being John's style. It was expansive, though, a far cry away from Erica's old apartment. There was ample room for the family, plenty of places to retreat to when they needed their own space. Erica had insisted on paying half of the rent. Just as she had when they bought their family home in London, she made a point of paying her own way.

"You usually share all your song ideas with me" Erica reflects, sinking into the couch, luggage spread at her feet, "Why haven't I heard anything from this new album?"

John deliberately avoids the question. He busies himself with Arthur, aware the baby was already settled in his bassinet, then George. The toddler objects to his nosiness, dismissing him haughtily when he tries to interject himself in the _Ninja Turtles_ scene she acted out. His wife watching him like an emotionally-concerned hawk, he gives in. "Don't have any ideas to share" he admits.

"I doubt that's true."

"Oh, I'll stick my oar in once the others start playing" John quips, "Honestly though? I don't feel that _inspired_."

He throws himself down beside her, his lips contorting into a pout. He looked depressed and he hadn't even started yet. Montreux certainly _wouldn't_ be like Munich. In Germany, they'd all been in the prime of their lives. It made 1985 feel like a separate dimension.

"What usually inspires you?" Erica asks, resting her head on his shoulder. She watches the rise and fall of his chest, hoping she might notice the pace of his breathing quicken, a novel song idea grasping him by the very soul. It didn't arrive. John shrugs. "Frustration. Love" he answers. He attempts a smile, light and warm. " _You_ ". Erica giggles despite herself. "You're my muse."

"Where's my half of the royalties, then?" she jokes, "You put _One Year of Love_ in a Hollywood movie and there was not a mention of my name". John laughs. A dark thought occurs to him, no doubt regarding Freddie, and his expression sours. Erica grapples for peace. She was determined to keep him happy, even if it was just for the two days they had before recording began. "What's the best thing you've ever written?"

" _Another One Bites the Dust_ was good."

"Because you made a fortune off it _and_ got to be smug, it being a _funk_ track?"

" _Exactly_."

John's eyes drift off onto an inconsequential item of furniture, his memory, somewhat patchy in recent months, going into overdrive. "Probably _One Year_. I haven't written from the heart like that since _You're My Best Friend_ " he says. He bites his lip shyly, cheeks reddening under his lover's gaze. "Sorry about the _no royalties_ thing-"

"I don't need your money. You've given me two beautiful children and all the love I could ever ask for."

The man almost melts. "You're going soft" he laughs. The humor quickly dies down, replaced by the overwhelming knowledge that he was once again falling head-over-heels for this wonderful woman.

"I don't mind" Erica concedes, "You bring it out in me". She glances over her shoulder to check the children were occupied, then leans in to kiss him. "And that can only be a good thing."

* * *

In a frenzy, Erica could find no other place to vent the intense pleasure rippling through her. She bites down hard on the shoulder she'd pressed her face against. teeth digging down right into the skin. John yelps. She couldn't tell if it was pain that provoked the sound or the prolonged aftershocks of his release.

He was surprised he had it in him. They'd only arrived back from their frisson in Bali the previous night. Like teenagers, they'd crept back to the hotel, lips zipped tightly shut should they be asked what they'd been up to these past two weeks. Erica had retired to the room she shared with Ed at first. Once her friend had fallen asleep, however, she'd tiptoed along the corridor and slipped into the bassist's room, shedding the sheer robe she wore. John had thrown her onto the mattress, and the rest was a frantic, erotic blur.

Neither of them had ever had a relationship quite like it. The sordid yet clandestine kind.

They played their respective parts in public but once night arrived, and the others retired to bed, lust took hold. It wasn't just sex, though that was _mindblowing_. They were madly in love. _God_ , the feeling spread like a fever. The rest of the band knew about them but didn't admit it, meaning there was just enough secrecy to their affair to make it exhilarating.

"Oh, _wow_ " Erica breathes, nails still poking into John's back. The waves rippling at her core never seemed to end.

"Are you okay?" John panics, registering the shock on her face, "Did I hurt you?" He attempts to shift from under her but she keeps him in place, savoring the warmth that melded their hips together. She maneuvers herself from his lap in her own time, practically whimpering for the hollowness that follows. He'd made every inch of her his own. It'd never be the same with anyone else. "I've heard some _sounds_ in my time, but that was-"

Erica cuts him off with a searing kiss. "You could never hurt me. Fuck my brains out, though?" She moans, her every fiber tingling. Only in the arms of other women had she ever been pushed to such a heady peak. In the short time since their liaison had begun, she'd realized he could probably get her off with his eyes alone.

John gives her a sultry look. He's ready to go for a second round, but someone knocks on his hotel room door.

"Oi, Deaky!" Roger's voice tears through the room, following by another sharp rap of knuckles on wood.

" _Roger!_ " Brian cautions, "He might be asleep."

"Is he bollocks" the drummer curses, "He's always the first awake. The _screams_ , too? He's got a bird in there. You can hear her halfway across the city."

The doorknob twists. The lovers share a panicked glance. Neither of them had thought to lock the door the night before.

Erica slides off the bed. Her initial reaction is to cover herself with the bedsheets, but that left John exposed. Naked, she darts into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She turns the shower on to drown out any sound she might inadvertently make. " _Fuck_ ". A stupid thing to do. It more or less confirmed there was someone else in the room now.

Too late.

Roger bursts in, a reluctant Brian on his heel.

The drummer beats at the air, whistling loudly. "Smells like free lovin' in here". He tugs at the bedsheets teasingly. John grapples with the material, intent on maintaining his modesty. "Whoever she is, she rides like a Triumph, going by the state of those sheets". The bassist flushes a furious crimson, struggling to cover his privates and the mess he and Erica had made at the same time.

"What do you want?" he queries pointedly.

"You're late" Brian answers.

It didn't happen often. Not at all, in fact. John enjoyed mornings. He was always the first in the studio, even if it meant still being slightly drunk.

"Never mind that" Roger expels, peering under the bed frame for a stray woman, "Who is she?"

"Fuck off."

"It's Erica, isn't it? She's in her twenties, you _harlot_."

" _Fuck. Off_."

* * *

_It's winter-fall_

_Red skies are gleaming, oh_

_Sea-gulls are flyin' over_

_Swans are floatin' by_

_Smoking chimney-tops_

Ed hadn't expected to find Freddie behind the microphone. He'd brought Erica's little ones down to the studio to show them around, his friend in need of some respite. The children were as enchanted as he was. It was _baffling_ , the strength of the man's voice. It was like hearing him for the very first time. It was impossible not to stand and listen.

This was a voice that would outlive its owner. An immortal sound, one that would move entire generations long after they were both dead.

_Am I dreaming?_

_Am I dreaming?_

Freddie nods to Dave, who sat behind the mixing desk. The track fades away. The singer sinks into a nearby seat. He knocks back a shot of vodka before standing, though even with liquid courage he grimaces. Ed considers walking through into the other room to help him. The singer makes a visible effort to straighten up when he realizes he's been watched. That brave face of his returns. He shuffles through the pain.

"Hello, dear" he greets casually, "I didn't see you there". Freddie winces when he attempts to lower himself to his knees, wanting to speak to George face-to-face. Ed lifts the toddler up so he can speak to the girl comfortably. "There's my lovely niece". He kisses the cheek of the girl, then baby Arthur's. "And my handsome nephew."

Softly he speaks in Arabic. Arthur is none-the-wiser, but George registers some of the words. Erica had stated she wanted her children to be fluent in both languages, following the example of her own mother. Ed had no idea Fred knew the dialect. He realizes he must have learned a few bits and pieces for the woman's sake.

He and Erica shared a distinct kinship, both the offspring of immigrants.

Dave helps Fred onto the seat beside his own. The frontman rests his feet. He rubs a painful spot concealed under his pants. His legs gave him the most discomfort. His bones were giving up on him, and his skin was ravaged by sores.

"When can we expect a new Taylor child?" he poses abruptly, deliberately seeking out comfort. Ed frowns. "Rog mentioned how keen he was to have another."

The blonde's brows shoot upwards. His husband had made no mention of it to him. Truthfully, he'd barely considered the prospect of raising a family when they exchanged wedding rings. He was happy to be a step-father, but anything else seemed like a pipe dream.

The law wasn't kind. There were many hurdles to vault over for same-sex couples.

"I don't know, Fred."

"I suggest you get on with it" Freddie sighs, "I'd like to meet them before I'm gone". He accepts the tape and permanent marker handed to him by Dave. _April 1991_ , he scribbles. The copy is placed with the rest, a surprisingly substantial pile given they weren't supposed to be working until the weekend was through. On all of them, the oxide was worn down, the film virtually see-through.

Illness didn't stop him. He gave everything he had, and more besides.

"Are you afraid?" The question slips from Ed before he can stop it. He tries to piece together retraction. He despised the idea of making Freddie feel uncomfortable, sad. At the same time, his experience with Craig made the feelings feel patronizing. Who the fuck was he trying to kid? Fred knew exactly what was happening to him, and to pretend otherwise felt like an insult.

Ed hovers in a futile attempt to balance out the two conclusions, while Freddie smiles.

"Oh, darling, I haven't the time for that." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do we feel about the flashbacks?
> 
> This story doesn't have too many chapters left now we're in 1991 (going by my current plan, at least!), so I've been thinking of ways to continue writing about these characters after its finished.
> 
> Would some drabbles concerning the gang be of interest to anyone if put in a separate fic?


	37. I'm Going Slightly Mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The band experiment with new tracks and record a video. Ed and Roger consider parenthood. Erica and John get stressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music mentioned in this chapter:  
> Made in Heaven by Queen  
> Bleach by Nirvana  
> I'm Going Slightly Mad by Queen

Ed’s train of thought is interrupted by a hand slapping his face. He recoils, furrowing his brows angrily when the hand stays there, knuckles pressed right against his nose. He pushes it away, snorting lighting when it ends up hitting its owner in the eye.

”Oi!” Roger growls, “What was that for?”

“Hands to yourself.”

“Not often I hear that.”

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Roger props himself up on the mattress. A faint yellow haze illuminated the thin material of the curtains. Through a minute gap between them, he could just about make out a slither of blue, and the white specks, which he sincerely hoped were birds, bobbing along the curves of the lake. God, his eyesight was getting bad. Admitting defeat, he takes his spectacles from the nightstand and puts them on.

“How long have you been up?” He asks, now able to notice how tired his husband appeared.

“Never slept” Ed answers.

“What’s wrong?”

Ed wriggles around to face him. With a frustrated puff of air, he blows the dyed locks from his eyes. “You told Fred you wanted more kids” he huffs.

“And?”

“Did it not occur to you to discuss it with me before getting his hopes up?”

Roger dismisses the criticism with a wave of his hand. Ed ducks out of the way, wary of being accidentally struck again. "He's not that bothered" the drummer reasons. Ed sits upright and folds his arms crossly. He couldn't quite gauge whether he was overthinking the matter. And, frankly, he was more annoyed that his partner had gone to other people with the desire, rather than hash it out with him directly. "He said we ought to get on and do it before he goes" he repeats.

Roger chuckles at his bandmate's words, then grows quiet. " _Oh_ ," he manages, "Well, what do you think?"

Ed scoffs at how simple the proposition sounds coming from his mouth. "I've no idea," he says, "Even if I could be certain that I was ready, how the fuck do two men go about having a kid?" In what state were the adopting laws back home? Was surrogacy an option? If it was, they'd have to choose someone they knew well. Would Erica be willing to help them out? Doubtful. She couldn't bear the idea of getting pregnant again. _What_ , then? It wasn't as though he could pop one out.

He shivers when his lover traces the definitions of his chest. Impassioned drumming from the first few recording sessions had left the other man's fingers covered in blisters. The wounds were tender but created the most bizarrely satisfying sensations when sensually brushed against his skin. "Guess we'll have to start trying, Mrs Taylor" Roger jokes.

"We can break out the candles" Ed agrees, still annoyed but happy to go along with the bit, "Make it romantic."

They busy themselves with giggly kisses and wandering hands, more a pair of teenagers than a mature couple discussing plans for a family.

"We can work it out, you know," Roger says, blinking prettily through his thick lenses, hair sticking up in all directions. He looked adorable. There was that husky quality that affected his voice first thing, too, the vibrations of his throat going right to Ed's lap. He nuzzles the other man's neck fondly, only pausing when Roger insists he has something meaningful to say.

"I don't want you to feel pressured or anything, yeah? I love kids. They're great. But there's no rush". He grunts when blunt teeth find his collarbone. It takes all he has to stop himself from pinning Ed down and making him yell his name. He flicks his husband on the nose instead. " _Oi._ " Ed meets his gaze, smiling innocently. "Did you hear what I said?"

" _There's no rush._ "

"Good. Now carry on."

Ed responds quizically, thrown by the idea of taking charge. That wasn't his style. He lies still, waiting for Roger to climb atop him as normal. The drummer stays still, eyes narrowed. A test of wills was underway.

"Can't be bothered now" Ed declares cattily. With a camp flourish, he attempts to get to his feet.

Roger catches him on the forearm and drags him down, hovering over him like an anchor. "You're a right brat, you know that?"

Ed nods, freeing himself from his underwear. "Know it. _Thrive_ on it."

* * *

A heavy drum beat forces Erica from her dictaphone. Her headphones tumble from her ears, landing at her feet. She doesn't notice. Doesn't move to retrieve them. There was another sound emanating from the mixing desk, now. It came in faint stabs, a sinister atmospheric sound she assumed must have been created electronically.

Through the glass screen, she spots Brian raise his arm. Loud and clear, a bolt of energy strikes the air. Features gripped by intense concentration, he strums away. The effect is powerful. Erica ditches her dictaphone and hurriedly attempts to put her camera together. Not daring to disturb him while he honed his craft, she records at a distance.

He gestures to Dave to begin another recording. He attempts the riff again, altering it just enough. The sequence is imposing and difficult to ignore. Erica can feel every note tearing through the amplifiers, the very floorboards she stood on trembling.

When he's finally content, she's forgotten entirely about the audio she was supposed to be sifting through.

"Bloody hell, Brian," she remarks, "That's severe."

The guitarist hunches his shoulders sheepishly. "In a bad way?"

"In a _brilliant_ way."

He relaxes. "That's good to hear". He notices the presence of a camera and waves awkwardly. Erica expects him to say something like ' _Hi, Mum_ ' but he just hovers about on the spot, picking passively at Red Special. "Should I do something cool?" he asks.

"You're already cool" Erica protests. The man laughs softly, pale cheeks steadily growing pink in color. He'd never thought of himself as _cool_ in his life. He was a middle-aged astrophysicist with a penchant for clogs. Erica had recently purchased a pair herself. Jim had recommended them as good gardening footwear. Ed hadn't yet forgiven her.

"What's this one called, then?" she queries, sensing an opportunity to get some work done.

" _Made in Heaven_ " Brian responds. He sets his guitar on its stand, hands ghosting the neck for several seconds in case it slipped out.

Erica checks the viewfinder. She'd kick herself if the footage later turned out to be out of focus. "As in the track from Freddie's solo album?" she probes curiously. It was an interesting choice.

The man settles himself atop the stack of boxes nearest to her. She perches nearby. They establish a little set, a casual chat turning into a professional interview. There had been a number of those.

Now they were their own bosses, Ed and Erica had no strict schedule to adhere to. There was no Mr. Michaels to take orders from as there had been the last time they undertook a project with the band. They'd record if and when they saw something interesting unfold, then create a documentary from the footage. Their aim was to show it on the TV show, but progress was slow, and neither presenter had any concept of when the album would be completed.

"I was just curious as to what I could do with the song" Brian relates, "So I put a beat together on the drum machine and came up with some guitar parts. It's just a bit of fun. Probably won't be on the album."

He had other ideas about Freddie's solo works, it seemed. _I Was Born to Love You_ was also on his peripheral.

The new album would be totally original stuff, he insisted. "Might take a while" he admits, "With Fred being ill-" He stops himself as if just remembering that his words might end up on television, and starts the sentence again. Erica makes a note to cut the mistake out. They both honored Fred's secret. The press could choke. "With Fred being so _busy_."

She gathers all she feels prepared to ask of him for the time being. The camera put away, a ruminative mood hanging over both their heads, they chat about the changing times. With all that had gone on with the gang in recent years, it was easy to forget they were in a new decade.

The 90s were already doing their best to shake off the cringe-worthy elements of the 80s. Preppies and their keyboards were gone. New musical scenes emerged. The hottest records of the day were invariably hip-hop or metal.

"There's an album I'll have to get to you. ' _Bleach_ '. Ed and I were sent a copy from some indie label in the States" Erica recalls, "Fucking good stuff. I've not heard anything quite like it. Sounds so heavy it's almost _dirty_."

"Roger'll like that" Brian nods, "What's the group called?"

" _Nirvana_. Some kids from Washington. I'll have to keep an eye out. They might get big."

"I dunno. Groups come and go these days. Not many of them seem to make a mark."

Erica was skeptical. She had a good feeling about that gritty little band from the US. "Unlike _Queen_ , you mean?" she says.

Brian doesn't answer. Just wiggles his eyebrows, mouth teetering on smug grin.

* * *

George flings herself against her mother's legs. The pen Erica holds slips, drawing a line of red ink through her notes. " _Shit_ ". She claps a hand over her mouth when her daughter stares at her. The girl was a quick learner. She'd bounce the studio singing the curse at the top of her lungs if she wasn't careful. "Don't tell your father."

"Don't tell me what?" John steps into the room, Arthur asleep on his shoulder. He leans down to rest the baby in his wife's arms without warning. As deeply as she adored her children, the interruption angered her.

For a good thirty minutes, she'd been making solid progress on her and Ed's project. Within seconds, she'd managed to strike through her own writing, rendering much of it illegible, and been landed with two infants to monitor.

John senses her attitude and rolls his eyes. He'd been pissed off all day. "Freddie wants me to lay down some bass" he contends.

"I'm working" Erica reminds him, "I can't do this _and_ stop George from pulling all the wires out". She fixes the toddler with a warning glare when she totters too close to the mixing desk. The studio was a playground for her. Yanking cables from their sockets and interrupting the band mid-practice was her favorite hobby. Stealing guitar picks was also George's idea of fun.

John had found at least six of his stuffed in the plastic backpack of one of her _Ninja Turtles_ figurines.

"There's no one else to watch them," he says, edging nearer to the door, "I've got important stuff to get done."

Erica recoils, gesturing hopelessly at the mess of papers spread around her. "Whereas I'm just sat on my arse having a laugh" she swipes.

The raised voices wake Arthur. He gargles, chubby fists reaching out when he realizes it's his mother he's snuggled against. John seizes the distraction as his chance to kiss the kids goodbye and head on his way. " _John_ -" she protests. She tries to stand but with every movement she made, her son threatened to burst into tears.

George crawled precariously near to the dark underside of the mixing desk. Dave was none the wiser, headphones on, bopping away to the beat Roger produced.

"They're only your _kids_ , Erica" the bassist quips darkly, "It's not like they can expect quality time with their mother or anything."

"Don't you _dare_ take this out on me" the journalist growls.

" _What_?" John spits.

"You know damn well what" she counters, "You don't get to act like a prick because you're hurting inside. If you could just _talk_ to someone-"

The angry facade slips. Poignant and raw, sadness fills his eyes. His lips bow low, puckering just enough for her to know there was a part of him that was desperate to burst into tears, to release all the pain. The voices in his head pipe up, never swayed for long. He opts for fury. "Just leave it, yeah?" he snarls.

The door to the studio space swings shut behind him. The slam wrenches little Arthur from his daydreams. He bursts into tears, cries so piercing even Dave hears them above the racket Roger makes. George notices all the adults present focus their attention on her little brother. Jealous, she pouts. Erica suddenly finds herself trying to calm both children. She doesn't carry on with her notes. Doesn't manage a single line.

She was nearing the end of her tether.

John made great strides towards dealing with his sadness one day, then regressed the next. Some evenings, back at the home they rented, he'd talk for hours about how Freddie's health affected him, how the crippling fear he felt when contemplating life without his best friend made him want to run away from the band and never look back.

Then he'd act like _that_.

Erica knew her husband was depressed, and she knew that compassion and understanding were, at the very least, a stepping stone in easing him out of it. Was she a bad person for running short on patience? Who the fuck knew?

Dearly she wished to return to those easy-going times in Munich. The whole gang was happy then. Healthy. Life was relatively uncomplicated. She missed it. The blissful simplicity of it all.

Because right now, it felt as though things would never be _blissful_ or _simple_ ever again.

* * *

_Innuendo_ showed no signs of faltering in popularity. Two months after its release, and it still dominated the charts. It was a much-needed confidence boost. All four members of the band claimed to not give much credence to the importance of record sales, but the album's success was undeniably gratifying. Freddie was especially bolstered. It was the drive he needed to carry on recording.

With chart success came the desire for _music videos_. The band had effectively pioneered the art years previously. Indeed, they'd become famous for their theatrics ever since _Bohemian Rhapsody_ appeared on screens. The concepts were no less absurd sixteen years on.

Creative difficulties behind the microphone, and a wealth of film experts nearby, made for a perfect opportunity to unleash some of them.

Freddie emerges wearing a crown made of bananas. He lifts it to reveal an impressive black wig, heavily hair-sprayed strands pointing out in all directions. He slides a pair of white gloves over his hands and flexes them, a borderline manic expression plastered across his frail features.

"How do I look, darling?"

Jim's eyes crinkle joyfully. "Quite ridiculous."

" _Good_."

John steps out from the makeup booth dressed in black like the rest. A jester hat is perched atop his head, hair slicked back. He wobbles the tassels deliberately as he walks, tempted by a chuckle when the movement makes his bandmate's laugh.

" _Jesus Christ_ " Ed yelps, a flash of yellow swinging precariously near.

Brian steps back, creating a safe distance between them. He hadn't got the hang of his beak yet. It had turned out larger than he'd anticipated, stretching an impressive length from his face. He'd been quite embarrassed when Erica caught him practicing his penguin walk.

He was a decent imitator.

The real animal still shows him up, though, waddling nonchalantly past the guitarist.

A squeal lodges itself in Ed's throat. It hurt, the cuteness of the creature. With wide eyes he treads behind it, watching the gentle patter of its webbed feet. Distracted, he ends up colliding with his husband.

The kettle resting on Roger's head teeters backward. "We're not getting a penguin before you ask" he cautions, restoring the hat.

Ed pouts. After a nod from its keeper, he leans down to pet the little bird's feathers. " _Look at him_ " he sings. He invites the drummer to pet the animal. Roger's alarmed by the dampness of the thing at first. Its big black eyes draw him in. _God_. It _was_ adorable. "Imagine a little baby in a penguin costume."

Roger looks across to the woman sat behind the cameras. "Erica, can we dress Arthur and George up like penguins?"

"I insist on it" she chimes. Countenance a shade or two brighter, she straightens up in her seat. It was nice to see her smile again. Stress did its damage. When she wasn't worried about that ever-elusive work-motherhood balance smug parents harped on about, she was worried about John.

The bassist didn't exactly help himself. Help was offered. He refused it, barely acknowledged it. Continued stewing in his erratic moods.

"As lovely as the Deacons are" Ed goes on, tugging his husband close by the belt loops, "I was thinking of another little baby. Maybe one with blonde hair and big blue eyes."

Roger blinks hard, visibly stumped. "The Milky Bar kid?"

Brian snorts so violently his beak flies off. The object claims John's jester hat on its way.

" _Our_ kid" Ed practically shouts, " _Me and you_."

The drummer hurries the man our of earshot of the others. "I thought we were still in the _thinking_ stage" he argues.

"You and I really don't have a good reputation where thinking is concerned."

"In the sense that we never do it?"

Ed scratches his chin. "Right on the nose."

The couple regards each other hesitantly. Given the whining that had occurred one recent morning, it was a shock to both of them that they should find themselves so close to a decision. Jumping up and down didn't seem right. And there were still a thousand things to consider.

"But I have _actually_ been thinking" Ed voices, "Or _daydreaming_ , mainly, because Erica doesn't half witter on-" He takes Roger's hands in his own, rubbing soothing patterns over his knuckles. "Point is, the idea's grown on me."

"And I remembered a lesson Fred taught me, after Craig died. Life's shit but it's _so_ worth living-"

A shake of a banana bunch helmet draws them from their embrace. Freddie had crept up without either of them noticing. Jim tugs at his arm, mumbling an apology to the Taylors. He manages to draw the singer back toward the couch, where John and Brian took turns holding the little penguin. "I just can't resist it when people quote me, dear" Fred beams.

"Having a little life that's ours sounds good to me. Something to care for."

Roger flashes a pearly white grin, palm encompassing the other man's cheek. "You make it sound like a plant" he pokes. He only just hears Ed's reply. He was off floating amongst grand images of the future. The sappy kind he'd never expected to find himself contemplating with _any_ partner, no matter how dear to him. Visions of happy little families. Everyone was there. Freddie included.

He _would_ get to meet the next Taylor child, or there'd be trouble.

"Babies are like plants" Ed claims airily, leaning into his lover's touch.

Roger couldn't have adored him more. "It's a start."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really liked the idea of a contrast between the two main couples: Roger and Ed becoming the cute domestic pair, John and Erica struggling with family life
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Sidenote: We had Milky Bars back in Canada and they were amazing. I've not had a single one since I moved down to Illinois and it's very upsetting :-(


	38. Mother Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang's time in Montreux draws to a close...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music mentioned in this chapter:  
> Mustapha by Queen  
> Fat Bottomed Girls by Queen  
> Mother Love by Queen

Chione Salib arrived home with a gift.

The second the clock on the shop wall signified her shift was over, she'd dashed to the record store on the corner. There was considerable congestion at the counter. Luck was on her side. Of the album she sought, only one copy remained. She'd worried she'd have to wrestle it from the grip of an excited teenager, but it turned out the boy didn't have enough in his wallet. She'd considered purchasing it for him, then remembered the disgruntled teen she had waiting for her at home.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, she models the record for her sixteen-year-old daughter. "Ta-da!"

Erica brushes a pile of curls away to reveal tear-stained cheeks. She sniffles sharply, her attempts to put on a brave face for her overworked mother failing miserably. Chione sinks into the seat beside her, pulling her into a loving embrace. "Oh, omri" she soothes, "What's wrong?"

Erica tenses at the word. It had been Arabic that had started it all. The _altercation_. "They _hate_ me, mama" the girl weeps, "I was in class and I couldn't find the right English phrasing. All I did was think out loud and-" She rests her head against her mother's chest. "They waited for me outside the school. Followed me home."

Chione rubs her daughter's arms gently. Her expression is more forceful. Rage ripples through her. This was the third encounter she'd had with prejudiced classmates in recent weeks. She'd already been driven out of one London high school because of the abuse she faced. It broke her heart to think her daughter might be chased out of another.

"They called me so many names" Erica sobs, clutching at her mother, those aggressive voices still loud in her mind, "I know I should be used to it at this point-"

" _No_ , Habibti" her mama warns, "It's not something you should have to _accept_. I know it feels as though the horrible names are part of life here, but they aren't. You're so kind, rohi. You deserve to be shown the same."

Chione had raised a fiery young woman. Erica didn't suffer fools gladly. She could stand up for herself if the situation called for it. But the more hatred she faced, the thinner her walls became. It built up, and every now and then she'd succumb to it. Her mother tried to counsel her that such feelings were valid. She was allowed to have a reaction to abuse.

That Erica even had to consider accepting it as normal disturbed her. Wasn't England supposed to be better than this? How often had the country boasted of its progressiveness?

"Put this on" she coaxes, handing the girl the new album.

Wiping her tears with the back of her hand, Erica shuffles over to the record player. She wanted to be enthused about it. It was a record she'd had her eye on ever since it was released. She knew how her mother struggled for money, too. Vinyl seemed like a luxury when they were only just covering rent.

"Why's it called _Jazz_?" she ponders, tracing the eccentric design of the sleeve. The needle struggles to get going. "They're a rock band."

Chione shrugs. She'd heard snippets of the record on the radio. She was keen to see her daughter's reaction to the opening track, especially given what she'd gone through at school. "We'll have to find out."

Erica rejoins her mother and waits for the music to begin.

Freddie's voice cuts through the silence.

_Mustapha Ibrahim_

_Mustapha Ibrahim_

_Allah, Allah_

_Allah will pray for you_

Erica starts. She'd never heard Allah mentioned on a record before. Certainly not in a rock song, and for it to come from one of her favorite groups too? The Salibs were a secular family, but it was still a part of their heritage. For Erica to even hear the prophet _mentioned_ cheered her up. It felt like an acknowledgment meant just for her. A nod from Freddie to all the fans of his that were like her.

_Salaam Alaikum_

That was _her_ language. The one that the bullies at her school had mocked her for using. It was empowering.

Chione smiles fondly, glad to see the light return to her daughter's eyes. "Do you like it?"

"I love it, mama!"

They jive across the floorboards to the song, not stopping even when the tenant below strikes the floorboards with a broomstick handle.

Erica pouts when the track fades out. "Can we play it again?" she requests.

"Yes, Habibti," Chione says, "Though I think you'll like the next one too."

* * *

She _did_ like the next track. Its release was as well-timed as _Mustapha_. As if racist classmates weren't enough of a worry, Erica had also developed a crush on the girl she was partnered with in Lab. The more comfortable she became with her feelings, her mother supportive as always, the more _Fat Bottomed Girls_ had spoken to her.

Erica chuckles at the memory. _Fat bottomed girls did indeed make the world go round_.

She repeats the story to Freddie. He asks what the lab partner she'd fancied as a sixteen-year-old was like and whether she'd ever plucked up the courage to ask her out. A sudden burst of confidence, out of earshot of the other students, had earned her a first date. The girl became her first-ever girlfriend. "Good on you," Fred said, grinning cheekily, "Glad we could be of service."

"You mean a lot to me, you know" Erica expresses.

Freddie waves his hand at her. "Oh, darling, you've no need to get sentimental on me."

" _I mean it_ " she insists.

Freddie stops fiddling with his cat slippers. Slowly, wary of angering the ache lingering in his bones, he maneuvers himself into an upright position. Erica's grateful for the gesture. She knew how uncomfortable he was having praise lauded on him, no matter how cocksure his stage presence. He was giving her his undivided attention. Allowed her to say what she'd always wanted to now she had the chance.

"Growing up, all my friends worshipped the same people. John Travolta, Dorothy Hamill, Lynda Carter. They were great, but they weren't _like me_. I was desperate for there be posters and magazine covers dedicated to someone who _was_. Then everyone started going crazy for this guy called _Freddie Mercury_."

"Who's that then, dear? He sounds like a right tart" the singer quips. He pretends to zip his lips up so she can continue.

"I read in a magazine that you were born in Zanzibar. That you had one of those _foreign surnames_ that people whinge about, like me. You were so _fearless_ , so incredible to watch. It didn't matter where you were from, or who were attracted to. You were unapologetically yourself. That changed my life."

"You made me feel good in my skin, in my sexuality, and I can never thank you enough for that". Erica looks over to him. Her face falls. "Oh, Fred, I didn't mean to-"

The man dabs at the corner of his eye. He accepts the tissue she holds out and turns his face away shyly. "No, no, dear" he speaks quietly, "Don't apologize."

He reaches a hand out to her. She takes it, trying not to dwell on how bony his fingers had become. He'd struggled on the piano during recording. Still, he offers her a heartening squeeze, faint but his best effort.

"I'm glad I could make you feel that way" he responds, smiling in earnest, "Makes me proud of all we've done". He looks to his cat slippers, momentarily distracted by the way the whiskers wobbled when he moved his feet. "They say a man's dying days are meant for reflection. I've searched and searched for regrets, mistakes I've made along the way. I've counted a considerable number."

"Would you change anything?" Erica asks. She already knew the answer and loved him endlessly for it.

Though his eyes had begun to yellow, they still sparkled. He was _perfect_. Just as he had been when she first saw him prancing about the stage in those tight leather trousers he was always fond of. "Honestly, dear? _Not one moment_."

* * *

Roger greets his husband with a slap on the arse.

Ed had just concluded an interview with Brian and John about progress on the album. The drummer had been otherwise engaged. Not being involved didn't bother him. Previous attempts by Ed to interview his partner had ended in disaster. Neither of them could be serious for long. Unless viewers wanted to listen to thirty minutes of inane, sexually-charged banter, there was little point.

Erica usually interviewed Roger, though their conversations weren't entirely sane either.

"Don't stay up too late" Ed warns. Seductively, he slides a cigarette into his mouth, lips settling tightly around the filter. Roger watches the other man waltz from the room, internally calculating how quickly he could get his latest dilemma off his chest and rush to their lodge to join him in bed.

Brian notices the look on his bandmate's face and throws his pen down. "No" he pleads, "I know that face. Whatever it is you've done, I don't want to know."

"Why do you always assume I've done something?" the drummer scolds indignantly.

John regards him dismissively. "Because you usually have."

Roger flips him the middle finger and throws himself onto a vacant chair. His friends sigh and abandon their song-writing. There was no avoiding the blonde when he had something on his mind.

"I just got off the phone with Debbie-"

"If you're even considering cheating on that lovely man, I'll-" Brian grapples hopelessly with the air, delicate sensibilities preventing him from conjuring a decent threat. "Well, I might do something nasty."

"Erica will break your knees" John adds, more successfully.

"I never would, alright? I love him to death". The boys accept that. It was plain to all that Ed was the love of his life. Recent talk of children had only confirmed the ferocity of the feeling between the two men. While Roger had always liked kids, they'd only ever happened by accident. It had taken someone very special to make him want to play happy families.

"Debbie and I like to keep in touch. We have a son together. It's normal" Roger shares, "Anyway, we got talking about Ed and I's plans. She said it seemed like a good idea. Thinks we make a perfect team". Smug, he attempts to steal a sip from John's beer when his bandmate isn't looking. The bassist slaps his hand away.

Brian frowns. It sometimes worried him how well he understood the drummer. "Think carefully before drawing a link between the two."

Roger remains unphased. He'd had a _light bulb moment_ , as far as he could tell. The idea would need finetuning, but it was worth considering, surely? "Do you think Ed would object?"

"Do I think Ed would mind if the woman you twice ditched him for became your surrogate?" Brian questions, incredulous. "That is what you're getting at, isn't it?"

Roger flirts with denial. Reality crashed hard on his head. " _Maybe_."

"Is it even legal?"

The drummer feels his heart sink a little. "I doubt it."

"And why _Debbie_?"

"We've got history. The only other bird I trust enough to carry my kid is Erica."

John laughs bitterly. "She'll never agree to that" He doesn't leave it there. A minor tirade springs from nowhere, stunning his friends into frightened silence. "She can barely cope with carrying her own. Not that I'm implying I want more, though she'll always accuse me of it. No, I'm too _unstable_ , apparently. Whatever the fuck that means". Icy frustration pouring from him, he gathers his bass notes and stalks off.

The remaining bandmates share a tentative glance. Resuming their previous talk seemed inappropriate now. "What the fuck was that about?" Roger blurts.

"John reckons she's nagging him. Erica says he's deliberately finding ways to piss her off so she'll stop trying to help him" Brian summarises, exhausted by yet another rift between the couple. It was a mystery to him how Ed and Roger had become the _balanced_ pair.

Roger sparks a cigarette to life, winded. "I forgot they were due for their annual spat. I should mark it on the calendar."

Brian makes a point of avoiding the smoke by pushing his chair further away. "Look, are you really serious about this? Consider how Ed might feel" he urges, "There are less complicated ways to go about it, surely?"

"Everything about us is complicated."

"So why make it more so by involving your ex-girlfriend?"

Roger takes a long drag. Debbie had seemed like the perfect surrogate barely five minutes ago. He still wasn't totally unconvinced. The woman appeared willing. But she _was_ his ex, and the mother of one of his kids. Together, they'd make a thoroughly odd family.

The confusion made his head heart.

He seeks out his favorite coping mechanism.

"I'd better return to my old lady," he says, stretching in anticipation. He hoped he'd find his lover naked. Sprawled out on the bed, perhaps, pert little arse in the air, propping himself up with those long, toned arms of his. Maybe he'd put a scented candle on, filling the room with a seductive musk? Would he be sucking on a cigarette when he saw him, jade eyes seducing him with their best _come hither_ glance?

The spring Swiss air is sharp and refreshing. Roger takes longer than necessary to cross the parking lot, reveling in the calm brought to him. The Taylors' baby predicament could be revisited in the morning.

For now, he had a husband to get back to.

* * *

The sun had long retired by the time Erica returns to the lodgings. Some two hours ago she'd vanished. Her initial plan had been to meet up with some industry pals she knew were in town and drink herself into a stupor, maybe catch a drag show at a local club. Then she'd remembered how poor a match hangovers and rock music were. A quiet stroll had given her a boring but healthy alternative.

One pack of Marlboro and a stretch along the lakefront later, she slipped into bed.

She doesn't speak, assuming John was asleep. She wasn't sure she'd have said much if she'd found him awake. There was no telling what kind of mood he was in. All it'd take was an inadvertently misjudged sentence on her part and he'd explode. Too many days had ended that way for the couple.

For a good while, she stares at the wall, waiting for fatigue to claim her. Send her somewhere nice.

"Do you still love me?"

If Erica wasn't already wide awake, the question wrenches at her so harshly she's amazed she doesn't bound to her feet. She rolls over on the bed. John had his back to her, focus presumably fixed on nothing in particular as hers had been. He doesn't repeat himself. His shoulders hunch. Into a little ball, he rolls himself, knees almost tucked under his chin. The demons in his head had informed him that the silence he was met with was the only answer he deserved.

"Of course I love you, John. Where's this come from?" Erica asks. With a warm touch, she strokes his hair, pressing her body close to his. The mere thought of him feeling so lonely brought her close to tears.

There's a lengthy pause, then a strangled voice. " _Why_?" he presses, "I don't deserve it. I'm a complete arsehole."

It wasn't self-pity that brought the episode on. The cruel commentary that had haunted him routinely ever since he learned of Freddie's prognosis had convinced him that he wasn't worth loving.

Grief played vicious games sometimes. Made him feel sad, then critical of himself for dwelling on his own emotions rather than Fred's. Grief made work hard, and he'd grow frustrated with himself for not being about to create at the same pace as he had before. His anger would seep out in tricky ways, directed at all the wrong people. _Erica_ , usually, the person on whom he relied the most.

It was a brutal, unrelenting cycle.

"Do you remember how quickly we fell in love?" Erica recalls. Heat finds its way to her cheeks. "Well, it was quick for me, anyway."

She hopes John smiles at that. His muscles don't relax. He remains curled up.

"Do you know why I fell in love with you, John?"

No answer. He couldn't think of a single reason why she might have chosen him, enchanting, funny, brash, young as she was. A joke about his net worth dances somewhere in the confines of his brain, but he felt too miserable to use it.

"Because you're _kind_. You're _considerate_. You're the sweetest man I've ever known, but you aren't a pushover. You're fierce when you need to be. And _fucking hell_ , you're funny". Erica rests her head against his back, listening to his slow breaths. "You cheer me up, make me feel good about myself. You're clever. So, _so_ clever. You're a perfect father". She smirks to herself. "You're too handsome for your own good, too. I can safely say that no one's ever made my legs tremble as you have."

A strange noise forces its way out of her husband's lungs, somewhere between an embarrassed splutter and a heartfelt chuckle.

"You make me want to be a better person. I wake up every day thinking about the memories I'll make with you, with the kids. I've built my life around you, John. Don't you see?"

Keeping the covers close, the man shimmies around. He watches her with weepy eyes while he continues to list the things that she adores about him. His first instinct had been to dismiss the sentiments as courteous pity. He didn't rate himself, so why should anyone else? Then her words had grown on him. She mentioned things he'd barely considered even when in a better mood. Made him laugh, too.

Every reason she supplies for loving him, he realizes, are the exact reasons _he_ loved _her_.

Their shared tenacity, coupled with a love of the subdued. Compassion. Hilarity. Intelligence. Wit. They were mutual qualities.

Perhaps not _humility_ , though. Erica was proud of her self-assurance. John smiles. The muscles in his face ache, the strain foreign.

Glad to finally see his face, Erica cups his cheek, tenderly following the etchings of his stubble with the pad of her thumb. "You mean so much to me. I know Jim and the rest of the band feel the same way" she speaks, "You're worthy of love, John. I realize how fucking cheesy that sounds, but you _are_."

"I love you" she reiterates, "And I always will. You know that, don't you?"

The dark overtones that poisoned his mind scream for him to roll back over. To ignore her pleas. Accuse her of being facetious. But her motivation rang too loud. If only for that split moment, curled up for the night, John felt good about himself.

He nods. "I know."

With big brown eyes, she watches him lovingly. A finger chasing the definitions of his jaw, she presses her lips to his. John's mouth lingers over hers. The kiss is deep but sweet.

He smacks his lips together, a familiar taste on his tongue. "You've made me want a smoke," he says.

A hand cupped over her face, Erica sniffs at her breath. She regretted burning through her entire carton. " _Cheap toothpaste_ " she accuses. "I'll go sandpaper my gums-"

John eases her back to him. "Kiss me again."

Her toothbrush could wait. John wanted to be near her. Wanted to feel her. He wasn't pushing her away.

Heart singing a bittersweet ballad, she captures his lips again. And again. _And again_.

And so the night fell down, John once again resembling the man she'd married.

* * *

_I don't want to sleep with you_

_I don't need the passion too_

Freddie had entered the studio alone. With only Dave for company, he'd lowered himself onto a stool. The engineer had lowered the microphone for him. He'd woken with a fierce pain in his limbs. Angling his head upward in any way was impossible. Dave had ended up fetching a cushion for him, too, something for him to rest his feet on.

_I don't want a stormy affair_

_To make me feel my life is heading somewhere_

John and Erica had appeared first, hand in hand. Some deliberate effort to reinforce how good they were when in a team. Freddie had nodded to the couple while he sang, glad to see them relatively content. The journalist had recorded some footage for the documentary with her husband, then busied herself with the studio's tea order.

Fred was most grateful to discover a steaming cup of the stuff beside him. Made him grateful for the woman. Reminded him, during one of those odd fits of introspection presented by certain death, of how dearly she regarded him. All those bigoted childhood bullies he'd banished without even knowing it.

He was glad he'd met her.

Ed, too.

_All I want is the comfort and care_

The blonde emerges from his love nest, the band's drummer in tow. They cut a loved up pair, leaning casually against the back wall, no doubt discussing potential parenthood.

_Just to know that my woman gives me sweet_

_Mother love_

Jim is the only one he allows into the recording space. Sedately, the Irishman positions himself atop an amplifier. He doesn't chip in, doesn't interrupt, just watches, jaw hanging low while his husband sings. Fred had never been more thankful for another soul.

Jim was his everything, right up until the end.

_I've walked too long in this lonely lane_

_I've had enough of this same old game_

Brian is the last to join the gang. His cheeks were red, the outlines of a grin barely concealed. It was the expression he usually sported after a phonecall with Anita. His relationship gave him such joy, he could barely comprehend it. The others teased him, but the guitarist didn't mind.

_I'm a man of the world and they say that I'm strong_

_But my heart is heavy, and my hope is gone_

Fred waits for the backing track to swell. He was nervous. His vocal cords didn't cooperate with him as they had in previous years.

The rest watch him. Kind, patient, cherishing.

Jim proffers an encouraging nod. He draws a shaky breath.

_Out in the city, in the cold world outside_

_I don't want pity, just a safe place to hide_

_Mama please, let me back inside_

Depleted, Fred removes his headphones, oblivious to how immaculate his pitch had been, and the awestruck faces pointed his way.

"I can't manage anymore. I need a rest" he admits, picturing Garden Lodge, "I'll come back. We'll finish it another time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mother Love is my favorite Queen song of all time. This was hard to write.
> 
> I threw in a reference to one of John and Erica's songs - Landslide, "I've built my life around you" - to cheer myself up.


	39. Those Were the Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Debbie joins Ed and Roger’s quest toward parenthood. Fred is sent a movie clip. John likes to ride his bike where he likes. The band record one final video.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music mentioned:
> 
> Nevermind by Nirvana  
> The Black Album by Metallica  
> These Are the Days of Our Lives by Queen

Ed waits until Debbie has poured herself a healthy glass of wine before chipping in. "Do you mind?" he says, jerking his head jauntily, " _Recovering alcoholic_ and all."

A kind woman, Debbie moves away from the dinner table, concealing the glass behind a long sleeve. "I'm so sorry!" she blushes, "I'll sit over here". She parks herself on the opposite end. Shyly she sips at her drink, casting tentative glances to her ex's lover as if worrying she'll offend him again.

Roger beckons his husband over to the stove, a common spot for gossiping. "Why did you do that?" he questions, "You don't object when anyone else drinks around you."

"Perhaps I was feeling vulnerable" Ed attests.

"Feeling bitchy, more like."

Ed opens his mouth to protest. No argument comes to him. "You married a bitch. What of it?"

Roger studies him skeptically. His husband had put on frosty air the second Debbie stepped through the front door. By contrast, the model was incredibly congenial. She carried no grudge with her to their meeting. Roger hadn't expected her to be quite so open to joining them. She had every reason to despise the drummer, given his infidelities, but she was a picture of grace.

"You agreed to this, you know" Roger reminds his partner, jaw clenched. They were so close to a definitive agreement that he couldn't bear to see pettiness tear it apart.

"Maybe I changed my mind" Ed shrugs.

The older man throws his arms in the air. The show of frustration catches Debbie's attention. She approaches the couple, doubling back when she realizes she still has her wine glass in hand. Ed sighs defeatedly and informs her that she'd done nothing wrong. It was obvious now that he'd been acting cattily, but still she doesn't rise to it.

"Is there a problem?" she asks, "I hope I'm not causing any disagreements-"

"Not at all. Just Ed being silly."

Ed opens his mouth to reprimand his partner. Debbie beats him to it, visibly perturbed. "I don't think he's silly. This is an odd situation" she reasons, "He has every right to feel awkward."

Quite dramatically, Ed's opinion of her flips on its head. He offers her the entire bottle of wine resting on the counter. _Reparations_ , he said. 

"This whole scenario is a little strange," she says, smiling in earnest, "But I'm willing to make it work if you are."

Strange was an understatement. Several times during their research, the couple had stopped to consider what they were actually doing. The fact they'd even _decided_ to become parents baffled them, chaotic as they'd been over the years. With Debbie added into the mix, the third party in their old love triangle, events became stiflingly complex.

Miraculously, there were few legal hurdles. They'd discovered a loophole in the law. Officially, the child would be Roger and Debbie's. Ed had been resistant to covering up at first. Feared it might undermine his role as a father in some way.

In the end, another media circus just wasn't worth it.

Roger holds his ex's hand appreciatively, then Ed's. He squeezes it, desperate to elicit a final, concrete _yes_. "C'mon, love" he ventures, "What'd you say?"

Overwhelmed as he was, Ed smiles. "I say this kid is going to be very pretty."

* * *

1991 had so far provided a promising number of creative gems.

In September, the band Erica had her eye on had released their second album, _Nevermind_. It conquered everywhere it went, seemingly. In the Deacon household especially, it was hard to avoid. Both she and Ed hadn't a single criticism to make. Track after track, it was mindblowing. Roger appreciated the heaviness of the record. John was unsure, the screaming and dirty guitar sound a considerable departure from his preferred Tamla Motown stuff.

' _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ ' had been adopted as a theme tune of sorts for the TV show. It summed up everything the program was meant to be about.

And if Erica wasn't thrashing her curls about to Nirvana, it was Metallica. Another fucking good album the year had offered up. The band had appeared on the show's season premiere performing ' _Enter Sandman_ '. The production company had ended up being fined for breaking curfew, the audience demanding encore after encore.

The decade's upcoming movies were promising. Freddie watched an exclusive clip from one from the comfort of his bed.

He and his visitors watch as a cast of misfits headbangs to Bohemian Rhapsody in a beaten up old car.

"That's actually brilliant" Jim compliments.

Fred cackles so hard he begins to splutter. He accepts a handkerchief from Ed. The younger man is certain he sees specks of red appear on the cloth, but doesn't mention it. It couldn't be helped. A doctor had diagnosed the singer with severe pneumonia. Freddie refused the medication offered to him, having already sworn off the cocktail of pills and syrups he'd been described.

He said he didn't want to _prolong the inevitable_. The declaration had caused a considerable upset at first, for Jim especially, but the gang had grown to respect the decision.

Fred deserved dignity.

"Oh, I _adore_ that" he coughs, eyes crinkling in amusement, "I'll have to send a note to the directors."

Erica looks over the case the tape had arrived in. Scribbled on the label were the words ' _Wayne's World_ '. It meant very little. Apparently, the movie was still in production and wouldn't be complete until the following year. She'd lookout for it. The soundtrack was off to a good start, at least.

Something occurs to her. She slaps her thigh irritably. "I knew I'd forgotten something" she curses, "I had a gift I wanted to give you."

Freddie's eyes twinkle. He looked oddly sweet, blankets tucked under his chin. "Oh?"

"One of my roses did very well this year. Wanted to present it one of the little pots George painted."

In reality, it was John who was supposed to bring the flower to Garden Lodge. Offhandedly, he'd taken it from his wife, mumbling something about how he intended on calling into the Mercury home after his errands were complete. Jim had revealed that John had made no such appearance. In fact, he'd not visited Freddie since his doctors confined him to his bed.

Freddie didn't complain. Though there was an undeniable yearning in him whenever he heard the Deacon family car pull up to the sidewalk.

"Never thought you'd become a _gardener_ " Ed dismisses, shaking his head.

"Gardening's fun" Erica counters, giving Jim a knowing nod. The Irishman had taught her all he knew about the hobby. She'd picked it up for necessity's sake at first, but now she loved it. It was her preferred escape when the children were running her ragged.

" _Old fart_ " Ed jokes.

"Nothing wrong with that, dear" Freddie vouches. He holds the woman's hand and winks. Erica guides their intertwined fingers under the covers, alarmed by how cold his skin was. He insists on a kiss so he can thank her for nursing him. "I've barely left this bed for a good week. That's pretty old fart-like, don't you think?"

The others chuckle, but Jim looks to his feet. They were spared the in-between moments. The occasions where Fred fell apart in front of him, pained, exhausted.

"Brian mentioned you've got one last video to do," Ed says, "Are you sure you're up to it?"

"Darling, once I have a couple of vodkas in me you'll scarcely know I was ill" Freddie claims. Again, he manages a grin, a faint pink gracing his sharp cheeks. His happiness dims a shade or two. "I'm sorry I couldn't contribute more to your documentary."

Ed and Erica melt in their seats. It was typical of the man. Here he lay dying, barely able to stand, and he worried over a silly little project. God, there really was no one else like him, was there?

"It's alright, Fred" Ed assures him, "We've still got time."

"Yes, of course". He speaks with such enthusiasm, one could be mistaken into thinking he'd be back in the studio the following week, riffing to the camera, sharing various naughty jokes during his interviews with the pair. The album, the documentary. Perhaps it'd all be done before the year was through?

Freddie waits until he's sure all focus has returned to the television set before letting his expression falter. Erica just about catches it, out of the corner of her eye while she pretended to rewatch the Wayne's World clip. It was one of those terrible moments where reality hit.

It was fucking cruel. Damn right evil.

Freddie deserved all the time in the world, and was the one thing he didn't have.

* * *

John had only intended to take his motorbike for a brief spin. A trip around the block would do, helmet off, Autumn breeze blowing through his hair. A road sign had caught his weary eyes. A route out of the city had appeared to him, his own bespoke pathway to heaven. One hasty dart around to the Taylor household later, he'd left the kids in the allegedly capable hands of Ed and Roger and pulled his wife onto the back.

Their ride had left them on the outskirts of London, surrounded by bountiful fields. They'd stopped for a sit-down at the edge of a pond. John's idly picking at the reeds, legs stretched out on the grass, when he's asked an impertinent question.

"Why haven't you been visiting Freddie?"

John pretends he hasn't heard. With what little acting chops he possesses, he peers at a cluster of lilypads and pretends he'd spotted some frogs. Erica doesn't buy a single syllable. Patiently she waits, countenance frighteningly neutral.

The bassist swears under his breath. " _I don't know_ " he confesses, his default response most inquiries lately. "I feel awful. Has he said something?"

"Not at all, Habibi. He understands I'm sure" Erica answers, "It's just he _misses_ you."

John glances back to his imaginary frogs. There was no life in the pond, just the reflection of an aging man, staring weakly with great bags under his eyes. He feels his muscles tense. Guilt stings at his eyes. He squeezes them shut in an effort not to cry.

"Oh, John, I didn't mean to-"

"No, you're right to ask."

He rests his head across his wife's lap. Erica strokes his curls as she knew he liked. Reminds him that he was welcome to tell her anything. Creates a comfortable space to bear his soul.

"It's hard. Seeing him so frail, confined to his bed. I don't know if I can face it. I know he'll be gone soon. I'm not trying to escape anything or delude myself by pretending everything's fine, I-" He collects himself, the passage of a wispy cloud up above a convenient distraction. "I don't want my last memories of him to be sad. I want to remember all the good times. Him prancing around in his leotards. That time at Live Aid when he made everyone at Wembley follow his every breath". John laughs quietly. "When he threw Roger's favorite maracas into the crowd."

Erica giggles. Though she hadn't been around to witness the incident, she was certain Roger had never forgiven the frontman for committing such a crime.

"The good, the bad. It's all important" Erica entreats, "Sadness doesn't invalidate the happy times. It just makes them all the more precious. And regardless of how shit it might be, every memory you can make is worth it, surely?"

John contemplates her advice. Eventually, he nods, brow evening out. "Would you come with me? To Garden Lodge?"

"Of course, love. Whatever you need."

He reaches up to play with a hair that slips out from behind her ear. "I'm sorry I've acted like such a bastard lately" he laments.

Erica tuts. "A _handsome_ bastard? I'll forgive you."

"A _mean_ one". John shudders, disturbed by how miserable his demeanor had been at times. He could recall with perfect clarity all the outbursts he'd unleashed in Montreux. There had been the odd sporadic fit of grief since. "I hated the idea of seeming _weak_ in front of you, in front of the others. I want to be someone you can rely on. Someone strong."

His lover leans down to peck his forehead. "You _are_ strong" she urges, "I don't want some arsehole, tough-guy version of you. I want the _honest_ version". Again, her husband nods. He watches her sweetly, lips parted just enough to reveal the little gap between his teeth.

"Emotions don't weaken you, you know. Feeling sad doesn't make you any less of-" Her gaze snaps back downward. A calloused hand hovers over the zipper of her leather jacket. Discreetly, John had lowered it just enough to expose a slither of skin. "I'm being profound and you're trying to peek at my boobs."

"They're fighting for freedom" the bassist contends, resuming his attempts to get her jacket open, "It's only humane."

"Is this why you brought me out here? So we can grope each other amongst the grass like two teenagers?"

"I'm not one for shirking tradition."

Erica snickers under her breath. There was no point continuing her thought, though she'd certainly be ready to remind him of it the next time he felt bad expressing his feelings.

At least he was _smiling_.

* * *

Despite his frailty, Freddie worked through the song flawlessly. He'd managed most of the verses without a hitch, acting the rhythm out with his hands, aiming gentle smiles at the camera. The others sedately played their instruments by his side, in perfect time with the playback.

It was an appropriate track to end video work on. Indeed, the more they'd gone over the song, the more they realized they were saying _goodbye_.

They all agree on a break. Freddie withdraws his hand mirror and delicately slides his hair back into place. He calls Ed over. "How do I look, darling?" he asks.

"Gorgeous, Fred" the younger man answers, "I love the jacket."

Freddie smooths over the waistcoat proudly. He'd practically squealed when he slipped it on. His beloved cats had been sewed into the fabric. Delilah faced directly outward. He'd caught himself stroking her in between takes, imagining the little madam was there in the studio with him, purring encouragingly.

"Why don't you have your camera out?" he petitions, searching the surrounding area for Erica. The pair had turned up to the shoot without their gear, to his surprise. He was comforted by it, really. They were there as friends first and foremost. The documentary could wait.

"I suppose we wanted to appreciate the moment properly" Ed reasons.

The rest of the group return from their bathroom and coffee breaks. The crew steps back behind the bank of cameras. Ed goes to move out of shot, but the singer catches him on the shoulder.

"Happy two years, darling" Fred congratulates. He chortles weakly when the journalist frowns. "You're two years sober, aren't you?"

Ed's charming features light up. "You remembered."

"Of course I did, dear," Fred says, winking affectionately, "I'll raise a glass in your honor."

The blonde snorts loudly. " _Prick_ " he jokes, stepping back with his middle finger raised.

The director calls for quiet on set. All lights except for those pointed at the band fade. Ed throws himself onto his colleague's lap and repeats Freddie's joke. Erica appreciated it as much as he had. They shared an odd brand of humor. Mocking, dark. It was one of the things that made the singer such a dear friend. The ineffable, good-natured nonchalance that poured off him, coupled with a fierce sincerity when called upon, and a boundless sense of compassion.

They'd never known anyone quite like it.

"Can you remember the rest, Fred?" the director poses.

Freddie rolls his eyes, amused by the naivety of the man. "Of course I do. Just play the fucking thing."

Combining every quality at once, he picks up where he'd left off.

_These are the days of our lives_

_They've flown in the swiftness of time_

Erica watches her husband pluck at his bass. He'd kept good on his promise and reconnected with Freddie. They'd been difficult to separate during the shoot, whispering some mischief or other about the video's director.

This would be one of the memories he'd collect. Complex, as sad as it was happy, but something to look back on nonetheless.

Freddie beams proudly at him. He'd always be especially proud of Deaky.

_These days are all gone now but some things remain_

_When I look and I find, no change_

Anita is similarly enchanted by her partner. She was a regular on video shoots. Even jokingly offered the band acting tips when the cameras weren't rolling. She'd lightened the mood during bleak intervals. One of the highlights of the day so far had been her overexaggerated coaching of Brian on how to hold the guitar.

_Those were the days of our lives_

Freddie's line of sigh moves to a different camera. The one Jim stood behind. He breaks into a grin. The others had never seen such a look of love as the one the two men exchange in that brief moment.

_The bad things in life were so few_

He tries not to get too distracted when he notices Ed extract his lighter from his pocket. With Erica, he waves the flame in time with the music. The duo shrink under the glare of the director. Like school troublemakers, they conspire behind the man's back.

Roger had noticed the gag. He bites his lip in an effort not to join in.

_Those days are all gone now_

Freddie wonders what the promised Taylor child would look like. Would they have the trademark blonde or Ed's natural red? The drummer's big blue eyes were a must, he thought. And Ed's sass. He wasn't sure how a perfect mix of the two would work, biologically speaking, but he didn't really care. They'd manage to produce an immaculate mini-me, knowing them.

_But one thing's still true_

He looks back at the camera.

_When I look and I find_

_I still love you_

He imagines the others watching the footage back at some point in the future, all the wonderful people he'd met and performed to along the way. He smiles fondly.

_I still love you_

Job done.

”Who’s for a brew?” He proposes, spinning carefully on his stool to face his band mates.

John raises his hand politely, which earns him a mocking nudge from Roger.

”I’ll have a coffee please, Fred” Brian requests.

”Oh, _darling_ ”. Freddie throws his hand over his brow, scandalized. “ _I’m_ not making it.”

Roger grins wickedly. “Do you even know how to? I’ll never forget the first time you tried to boil an egg.”

”It’s more difficult than it appears.”

Cradling Ed against her chest, Erica pipes up. “ _Can_ you make tea, then?”

Freddie stands slowly leaning on his stool for support. The others swoop near to lend him an arm but he waves them all away.

“ _Watch me_.”

He let’s Jim guide him. He leans in to talk to his husband, to mess with him, though his voice is deliberately loud. He wanted them all to hear him. For them to laugh, like in the good old days.

”So, sweetheart, can _you_ boil an egg?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to end this chapter on a silly note. It felt more comfortable to me that way
> 
> I hope you feel I’ve handled Freddie’s illness over the last few chapters with respect and kindness. I hesitated even mentioning it initially, because I didn’t want it to be seen as ‘plot’
> 
> This was a real man and a real disease.
> 
> I hope you feel I handled it well. If not, please, please let me know.
> 
> Thanks for reading as always. All feedback is welcomed


	40. Goodnight, Freddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's April 1992. The gang gives Freddie the biggest send off in history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music mentioned:
> 
> Enter Sandman by Metallica  
> All The Young Dudes by Mott the Hoople  
> We Are the Champions by Queen

"Look lively, mate! Precious cargo coming through!" A sound engineer hops to the side, out of the path of a pregnant woman. Her protector keeps a loose hold on her hand. The engineer is subject to a cautionary stare. Ed had caught one too many men ogling Debbie.

The man could be clingy, but she appreciated his support. They'd become firm friends over the last few months. A good job, really, as Ed scarcely left the woman's side. The baby, by now six months along, had kept him going in his darkest moments. He was certain he'd be undertaking his third stint at rehab had it not been for impending fatherhood.

The Taylors had been able to present a positive test to Freddie. Jim said he'd insisted on keeping hold of it and talked at length about how excited he was to become an uncle again.

Roger waves his drumsticks at the pair. He'd been sat at his kit for a good ten minutes but hadn't managed a single beat so far. The second he'd settled on the stool, it had hit him.

_The band would be playing without Freddie._

Brian tried to keep a level head. Like a bee on steroids, he buzzed around backstage, chatting to anyone and every one to ensure everything was ready. John had performed a brief soundcheck, then retired to his dressing room. He'd said he needed a moment to pick out a stage outfit, but the tears in his eyes said differently.

A precocious preschooler volunteers to stand in for her father.

George tugs at one of the bass strings, squealing when the vibration echoes around the stage. She plucks another, fixing big brown eyes on every adult nearby, a silly smile on her face. Erica applauds. "Are you going to be a bass player like your daddy?" Her daughter nods vigorously, the pigtails her dense curls had been pulled into falling apart.

Anita watched over Arthur backstage. The little boy rapidly approached his second birthday.

John had been reluctant to bring the children along to Wembley, of the opinion that a rock concert was no place for infants. Erica had insisted they at least _see_ the venue. Music was an integral part of both the Deacons' careers. John had said something odd then. " _Not for long_ ". Erica didn't press him on what he meant by it. He didn't need the additional pressure.

" _Erica_!" Ed calls, bellowing into Roger's microphone. The PA screeches. The blonde promptly receives a lecture from one of the technicians about 'taking the piss'. "You got that list of all the acts?"

"Didn't bother with one" she answers.

Ed scoffs. "Call yourself a professional."

"I interviewed off the cuff at Live Aid. I'll do it here."

Life had a funny way of coming full circle. Erica wanted to be sad about it, but she wasn't sure she had the time. It hadn't quite sunk in, either. Freddie being gone. The loss had numbed her. And when she wasn't doing her best to keep John afloat, and the kids happy, she was trying to busy herself with work.

She hoped there'd be some catharsis in conducting all the backstage interviews. A long-awaited release.

Her and Ed's involvement didn't stop there. The concert was being recorded by their production company. The cameras, the lighting rigs, it was all from their television studio. It made things complicated, but they welcomed the challenge.

"Erica, your husband's back". The technician tries to wrench the mic from Ed's hand. " _What_? I'm just having fun-"

John lingers on the edges of the stage. George runs over to him, immediately smushing her cheek against his leg. She had no concept of what was going on, of the emotional weight her father carried on his shoulders, but she seemed to understand that he needed cheering up. She manages to coax him into the limelight, babbling animatedly about how she'd been playing with his guitar.

"How you holding up, love?" Erica asks, curling an arm around his waist.

She can tell he's looking anywhere but the vacant space where the crowd would be. 70,000 or so, upon a final count of the tickets. Part of him wanted the stalls to remain empty. With no Fred around to boost his confidence, the prospect of facing so many, not to mention the millions who'd see him on TV, made him want to hurl.

"I don't know if I can do it" he admits, swallowing hard. He rests his head on his wife's shoulder, eyelids drooping low. He hadn't slept. The meds offered to him by his doctor didn't work.

The months since that fateful day in November were the longest the gang had ever known.

"He might not be here, but he's watching" Erica soothes. She looks up to the sky, even and blue. It was a nice day for a send-off.

"Do you really think so?" John questions hopefully.

Erica imagines the man looking down at them from the Heavens. A cup of tea daintily held in his hand, a cat purring in his lap. He's probably making his usual diva-like remarks about the colossal size of the gig. " _It's what I deserve_ " he might say, grinning wickedly.

"I know so. I hope he enjoys the show."

* * *

Erica rubs her thighs together, lip bitten. A familiar guitar riff starts, followed by a pummeling bass line. She wasn't sure what turned her on more. Metallica, or the fact that John had introduced them.

She tries to keep her cool when her husband walks by. It was comfort he needed. Bravely, he'd said his piece before the vast crowd. Brian and Roger had stood by him. The audience had even chanted his name. It was enough to get him through it, though Erica doubted the bolstering effect would last long.

"Why don't you have a nap, Habibi?" she advises, "Get your strength up before you have to perform?"

"Come and join me when you get the chance" he invites, kissing her softly. Head hung low, he disappears into his dressing room once more, oblivious to the musicians and journalists who tried to grab him for a chat on the way.

Teetering somewhere between melancholy and arousal, Erica finds herself summoned to the large space behind the stage. It was abuzz with activity, the world's press, and the cream of the music world mixing seamlessly.

Ed, who'd spent a solid thirty minutes with his ear pressed to Debbie's stomach, talking happily with his unborn child, tears himself away and joins his colleague.

"Think we can grab Toni Iommi for an interview?" Erica ponders, surveying the hordes. The Black Sabbath guitarist is just about identifiable in a sea of long-haired, black-clad metal artists. Brian had invited him to perform with him later in the show when the remaining members of the band took to the stage. "Haven't seen him since our adventure in America."

"Oh, when he told you he'd shagged your mum?" He flinches when his friend pretends to raise a hand to him. "Don't do it. I'm a family man!"

"Family man, my arse."

"I'll have you know I'm going to be an excellent father."

Erica concedes a smile and gives his hand a squeeze. "I know, Ed."

A shy intern scuttles near. Shaking ever so slightly, he plucks up the courage to look his bosses in the eye. "Pardon me, Mr. Taylor, but the director wants a word" he utters.

Ed flicks his dyed locks back dramatically, sporting a well-practiced pout. " _Mr. Taylor_ " he boasts, mainly to himself, "That's _me_."

Erica shuddered whenever any of their employees called her _Mrs. Deacon_. She hated the cliche of the friendly boss, but she liked to think she was friendly with everyone who worked for Real Ambition.

They were doing exemplary work. A huge rock concert was a considerable departure to the cozy, well-organized TV shows they produced. The broadcast was going well. Moreover, it was satisfying, knowing _they_ were in charge.

She'd been at the behest of the old cronies at the BBC during Live Aid.

Jim had stood up to one of the racist cameramen who taunted her. Threatened to get Freddie to pull out his old boxing gloves and teach the man a lesson.

Suddenly, the Irishman is there. It takes Erica far too long to register him. She assumed she must have imagined him. The gang hadn't seen much of Freddie's husband since the funeral.

"Jim!" she cries, throwing her arms around his neck, "I didn't think you were coming."

"Well, I-" He lows his tone, intimidated by the presence of so many. "I'm not staying. I just wanted to say goodbye."

" _Goodbye_?" Erica stutters, pulling back to look at him properly. Patchy stubble covered his face. He was thinner than he'd been in December, when she'd helped him to his car outside the crematorium. 

A ceremony they both wished they'd never have to attend.

"Are sure you'll be okay?" she'd asked, her hand lingering on his arm. She'd noticed him practically sprint from the building at the end of the service. She'd contemplated heading back with him, sitting with him for a while, give him a shoulder to cry on.

But John needed her as well. Her husband had needed assistance with every step. Getting his suit on. Climbing into the limo. Paying their respects to Fred's coffin. Handling all the small talk that always followed.

"I'll be alright, love" Jim had assured her. 

Jim sighs heavily, scratching his beard. The wedding ring on his finger still glitters.

"I'm going back to Ireland," he says, "I can't face things here."

Erica nods tearfully. She wanted him to stay in London, but she understood why he had to go. There was no chance of him remaining in Garden Lodge, even if Mary, the home's new owner, had allowed it. His memories of that place were 

"I'll miss you" she whispers.

"You too, love. Give the others my best, yeah?"

They hug briefly. "If you ever want to come down to London, you're welcome to stay with John and me. And you have my number."

"I'll bear that in mind, darling". Though something about the way he speaks suggests he had no intention of returning to England. Erica knew she couldn't demand anything of him. She wouldn't dare.

He was grieving the loss of his husband. He did what he needed to do.

"See you around, love" he bids.

Silently, he slips into the crowds. Erica watches him go, lingering on the spot in hopes of catching a final glimpse of the man. She doesn't.

Something tells her she wouldn't be seeing Jim again.

* * *

Ed acts as though he's been coerced, but Erica can tell he's loving every minute.

They'd been interviewing Seal when the boys from Def Leppard crept up from behind. Her co-host had feigned resistance when Joe Elliot took him by the hand, insisting he join them on stage. She'd threatened to kick them between the legs if they carried her on before all those people.

With Ian Hunter and David Bowie, the band was beginning a rendition of ' _All The Young Dudes_ '. It was an emotional moment for them all. They'd toured with Mott the Hoople in the very early days.

God, the years had flown. Kind, unkind. Vicious, tranquil. The never-ending revolutions that life was made of.

_All the young dudes_

_Carry the news_

_Boogaloo dudes_

_Carry the news_

Ed presses his finger to his ear while he sings, a perfect pop diva in training. Though he amped up the performance for a laugh, his voice was strong. Erica was most surprised when he realizes it's her friend she can hear most and not Bowie.

_All the young dudes_

_Carry the news_

_Boogaloo dudes_

_Carry the news_

"Not joining in?" Debbie asks, hands resting on her bump.

"I'm the brains, he's the showboat."

"I don't think that's quite true" the woman giggles.

Erica recalls all the times she'd shown off. "You're right. I'm actually quite dim" she jokes. She pats her pockets. "I'm off for a smoke."

She doesn't go far. Just travels to the other side of the stage. _John's side_. She watches him tap his foot sedately, the faint etchings of a smile ghosting his lips. He was starting to enjoy himself.

They _all_ looked as though they were enjoying themselves, in fact. Brian had remarked to her earlier in the day that performing again had helped him come to terms with the loss. With so many around him and so many watching, he found comfort. They missed Freddie as much as he did. Made him feel less alone.

Roger held together well, too. His attempts to hide his tears with his sunglasses hadn't gone entirely unnoticed, of course. He's glad to see Ed belting the lyrics at the top of his lungs. A host of legends, some of whom he'd worshipped in his youth, sang with him, but the drummer finds he can look nowhere other than his husband.

_All the young dudes_

_Carry the news_

_Boogaloo dudes_

_Carry the news_

Cast in an electric red hue, John looks to his left. He sees his wife singing along and plucks up the courage to groove up to one of the microphone stands. He quietly utters a few verses. Checking his surroundings to make sure the other artists were still caught up in the performance, he sneaks to the fringes.

Still strumming away, he jerks his head to the cigarette Erica puffs away at.

"Trust you" she chortles, sliding it into his mouth. She holds it steady while he takes a long drag.

"Needed that" he mouthes. He leans into to touch his lips to hers, slow and tender. " _Really_ needed that."

* * *

"Good night, Freddie. We love you."

Roger sinks into his husband's embrace, head resting on his shoulder. Debbie waves ecstatically at them, blown away by the final number.

' _We Are the Champions_ '. What other song could it have been?

"I wish Fred was here" the drummer laments, "I wish he could see our little girl."

Ed grimaces. "That's a very creepy thing to call a grown woman" he counters.

Roger doesn't have the energy to roll his eyes. "Not _Debbie_. The _baby_."

His partner feels his brows shoot up. "You think it's a girl too!" Ed had been convinced ever since the first songram. He'd whispered to their surrogate that he wanted ' _Madonna_ ' to be added to their list of baby names.

The pair grin madly. They share a kiss, not caring that the eyes of the world were on them.

What a strange little family they'd make. _Loving_ , but strange.

Anita stands ready with a steaming hot cup of tea, made to Brian's preferred beige. Initially, they'd made plans to grab a pizza with some of the other artists. The couple had decided against it, an early night more fitting after such a taxing evening.

Away from the chaos, John returns to his little family. Arthur falling asleep against his neck, George holding her mother's hand, the Deacons make their way home.

"How about a break somewhere?" John proposes, barely awake, "Just me, you, and the kids."

Erica smiles. He deserved an escape.

"That sounds perfect, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not long till the end now :-(
> 
> I'm working on some one shots and such like atm, though, so look out for those!


	41. You Don't Fool Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New parents Roger and Ed adapt to family life. John struggles to decipher his place in the band post-Freddie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horny scene brought to you by me missing my boyfriend and constantly having Doja Cat on repeat.

Erica had rushed to the Taylor household in panic. For two days, phone calls had been left unanswered, and neither Ed nor Roger had made any appearances at their respective workplaces. After digging her spare key out of the kitchen drawer, Erica had sprinted the three blocks between her home and theirs.

The scene she uncovers is vastly different from the paranoid visions she'd been having.

Ed lies on the couch, a blanket thrown over him, drifting in and out of a half-sleep. A little bundle wriggles against his chest. As if sensing his daughter's eyes on him, the man snaps awake. He takes his time in registering Erica's presence.

"Oh, hey," he says, regarding her with hooded lids.

"You've not been answering your phone" she reinforces, irritated by the stress he'd caused her.

"I've been looking after Poppy."

The two-month-old stretches little arms out from her blankets, rosy features contorting in a tiny yawn. Not counting her own children, Erica thought Poppy must be the most adorable baby she'd ever seen. The archetypal Taylor child, she was all big, blue eyes and porcelain skin, a fine dusting of yellow hair on her head.

Her parents were obsessed with her, Ed in particular.

"Isn't she just perfect?" he beams, stars in his eyes.

"She _is_ lovely" Erica agrees, tickling the infant's cheek fondly. She'd babysat for the couple on a couple of occasions since Debbie gave birth. "Can't you have another one?" Ed asks, "I want to be surrounded by babies."

"Two is more than enough for me". It was a line she'd uttered several times since her last pregnancy, but it had never quite felt as _hollow_ as it did then. Shooting down John's perpetual broodiness was a kneejerk reaction. Not that she didn't miss the time when George and Arthur were that small. They'd been so tiny. So dependent on her. Newborns were nice, in their own way.

She shudders, uncomfortable with the bassinet-riddled avenues her imagination toyed with.

Senses remarkably astute for a new father, Ed detects her purpose. "You want me to come back to work, don't you?" he asks.

Erica grimaces, reluctant to play bad cop. "The documentary needs finishing. And we need to get started on scripts for the new season. We won't get anything out until Christmas at this rate-" She's thrown off when her co-host narrows his eyes.

"We don't _need_ to do anything" he contests.

The sentence doesn't translate. "What do you mean?"

Ed sighs, shifting slowly into an upright position. He cradles Poppy, gaze drifting down to her every other moment to check she's happy. "We've been working almost non-stop for _seven years_. We don't need more money. Why not relax for a while?"

Erica blinks hard. The thought had never crossed her mind. It doesn't sit right. Doing _nothing_? After everything they'd achieved so far? " _A while_ " she singles out, nibbling her bottom lip, "How long is that exactly?" Her frustration grows when the man shrugs.

"I've been in rehab twice, watched two people I love die from HIV, been through hell in my personal life, and all in the public eye. I'm allowed to sit back for a moment, don't you think?"

Rarely did he snap at her. When he did, she listened.

It wasn't as though she could offer a counter-argument, either. By all accounts, they'd run the gauntlet together these last seven years and just about made it through. They'd been thrust into the spotlight at a moment's notice, endured various crises in their relationships, lost Freddie, and both started families. It was _a lot_. 

“You’re right. Sorry, Ed”

"Don't think I haven't noticed how tired _you_ look". Erica checks herself over in the mirror hanging above the fireplace. She'd left the house thinking her makeup had done the trick. "You've had to put up with a lot. Kick back, enjoy yourself for a while. Spend more time with the kids. They'll appreciate it."

Having already had her fatigued appearance pointed out, she doesn't take kindly to the insinuation. "You've had a kid for five minutes. Don't make assumptions about my parenting."

Ed clutches Poppy like a shield. "Listen to yourself. You're being all-" He waves his hands about, grappling for the most sensitive word. "Temperamental."

"Is that right?"

Erica hears her cigarettes call to her from her pocket. With x-ray vision, Ed detects her next move. " _Outside_ " he directs, pointing toward the hall, "There'll be none of that in this house anymore."

Like a scolded child, the journalist finds herself smoking alongside a similarly slapped-down Roger.

The drummer is less annoyed about being forced into the back yard. He even declares that he'd be quitting the habit soon. Part of the Taylors' efforts to provide Poppy with the best possible start. He's quick to point out that he meant no offense to the other couple, neither of whom even contemplated giving it up.

 _Good_ , she thinks. She'd go spare without her beloved Marlboro. Besides, she was fit, and the kids were always kept well away from it.

"Is John alright?"

Erica frowns. "You see enough of him at the studio. Ask him yourself."

Roger taps his cigarette on the rim of a nearby ashtray, expression grave. "He always lies. Says he's _fine_. "I dunno. It's like every time we seem him, he closes off a little more. Brian's noticed too."

John was committed as they were to producing something meaningful with Fred's last recordings. They had mainly vocals to work with. The musical arrangements would require a great deal of work. The task was accompanied by emotional hurdles, too.

Listening to their friend's voice again _hurt_. They had to take their time.

"Do you think he'll quit the band?"

Erica can sense by his tone that he resents having to ask the question. She didn't like hearing it. Neither of them ever thought they'd find themselves having such a discussion when the gang first formed. She wished she'd appreciated those early days more.

"He's unsure about Queen carrying on without Fred," she admits, "But actually _leaving_? I'd rather not put words in his mouth."

But of course, _leaving_ wasn't the word John used. In his discussions with her about his future in the industry, _retiring_ was his preferred phrase. He'd told her that he saw little future for the band once the album was complete. Even if he thought they could achieve something without Fred, he knew he'd rather be with his family.

It was his decision, and his to share.

"Could you try and convince him to stay? If he does quit?" Roger pleads.

Erica sighs heavily. She wanted to help him. The band of brothers they'd relied on for twenty years was breaking apart. It was natural for the drummer to be afraid.

But John was her priority.

"No, Rog," she tells him, "I won't."

* * *

The show went on, for the time being.

Bass duties fulfilled for the day, John was landed with his monthly fan club responsibilities. He'd nodded his way through a video message with Brian and now found himself in an isolated corner of the group offices, a long list of unanswered fan questions before him. He's trying to rake through the confused sludge his memory had become when his wife pokes her head around the door, fresh from an interview with Dave Richards.

Ed remained steadfast in his role as a doting dad. Erica trooped on with the documentary alone.

"Mind if I join you?" she asks, throwing herself down next to him when he smiles. The loose skirts of her sundress float up precariously. John makes no attempt to pretend he hadn't just caught a glimpse of her panties. Erica has to snap her fingers right up by his nose before he returns to Earth.

Clearing his throat, he consults his questions. "What ice cream flavor would you say I am?" he ponders.

"Vanilla" Erica decides.

"The boring one. Thanks, love."

"Vanilla's my favorite."

Resting her head on his shoulder, the woman peers at some of his other answers. Many were clearly sarcastic. No disrespect was intended. John was grateful for his admirers, as overwhelming as fandom could be.

 _'What are the four words that you feel best describe you?_ _Shy, nervous, irritable, worried_.'

"You're getting better, Habibi" she reassures him, planting a kiss to his cheek, "You're doing great". He squeezes her knee to let her know he appreciates the comfort.

He wishes there was a gesture he could offer that expressed how thankful he was that she'd stuck by him. She'd taken the volatility and the misery in her stride. Put him in his place when he needed it. Nursed him when his defenses were low.

_'If you were not John Deacon, who would you be and why?'_

"Patrick Swayze?" he jokes "Sexy and a good dancer."

Erica hums pleasantly. "You're already both of those things," she says. His throat bobs anxiously. She drinks in the sight, wondering how close she'd have to get to elicit an excited shiver. Her lips take the initiative, gently grazing the defined line of his jaw.

The couple hadn't been truly intimate for some time, John's spirits too heavily weighed down. Erica didn't mind. He seemed to be improving, however, so what was the harm in teasing a little?

" _Behave_ " he warns, smirking despite himself.

He scribbles ' _No idea_ ' into the answer box and moves on, grip on his wife's bare knee tightening unmistakably. The list seems to multiply before him. The sooner he got it finished, the sooner they could head home, where could find out where her caresses might lead him. The odds of getting lucky certainly looked as though they were in his favor.

' _When you wrote One Year of Love, who were you thinking about_?'

Easy one.

' _Erica_ ' he writes. 

Erica already knew. She'd watched him composed the damn thing, but still, it touched her. "Do you think about me often, baby?" she plays, resting her thumb just shy of her tongue, deep brown eyes wide with feigned innocence. John blushes. A resounding _yes_. She can feel the heat prickling under her skin, her mind delving into every sordid detail of the things he must be doing to her in his head. "You can imagine whatever you like. I'm _yours_."

Breathing growing steadily heavier, a distinct tightness forming at the front of his pants, John writes his next answer, quickly struck through with a thin line when he notices he'd made a spelling error. He hesitates in correcting himself, hoping Erica would notice. Lightly humiliate him for it. Rile him up all the more.

"Am I distracting you, John?" she purrs, husky voice bringing him out in goosebumps.

The bassist drops his pen and snakes an arm around her waist, fingers tracing the floral pattern of her dress. "Wearing this tiny little thing in _September_?" he chastises, "I think you knew exactly what you were doing when you came in here."

Erica slides into his lap, hips grinding down. A whimper catches in her throat. She'd forgotten how thin her underwear was. She could feel _everything_. "I know. Very bad of me, Habibi, don't you think?"

Restraint slipping from him piece by piece, John aims a sharp slap at her behind. " _Very_ bad" he growls.

Their kisses immediately deepen, months worth of untapped need released at once. Erica had never felt so hopelessly needy. Sex had always been an important part of her relationships, and never more so than with John, but it hadn't occurred to her considerable its absence was.

She increases the pressure she places against his crotch, eager to get him to hit her ass again. She's embarrassed by the moan she gives when he does. "Can I do it harder?" she hears him drawl, voice tainted by nerves. She calms him by threading her fingers through his greying curls, trailing sloppy lovebites along his neck.

" _Please_ " she entreats, bracing herself. His hand meets her behind again, and she yelps. The impact forces her to slide a little further along his length. John is sure he can see stars.

He surprised himself. Desire had been a far-off thing for so long. It made him feel good, wanting her again. Like he was emerging from the deep end of his grief. He wanted to make her feel good, too, a thanks for her care of him. He knew he wouldn't have made it without her.

He slips nimble fingers under the strap of her dress, letting the string fall past her shoulder. He dives onto the supple almond-toned skin there, dragging his teeth, sucking, drunk on the taste of her. He groans when she rolls her hips good and deep against him.

Curses tumbling from her lips, she leans near, her mouth pressed against his throat.

Guttural and raw, she whispers to him. " _I want you to fuck me_."

"Oh! I'm sorry!"

Erica rolls off her husband, hastily passing him a cushion to cover his bulge with.

Brian stands in the doorway of the office, the journalist's tripod in hand. "Dave said you left this in the studio. Just wanted to return it to you" the guitarist mutters sheepishly. John glares. The taller man backs off, a vivid red hue creeping onto his cheeks.

The door shuts. Erica rubs her thighs together, warmth pooling at her core. She's eager to jump back on and get her wish, but John had returned to his fan club work.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

He seems to barely read the questions now. His answers are largely non-committal, as short and sweet as he could make them. She gives up trying to count how many times he writes 'Don't Know'.

"Trying to get this done with" John replies, freehand running the length of her leg, not stopping when it disappears beneath her skirts, "I want to get you home."

Erica fans herself with her hand, certain she must be dripping by now. "What are you going to do to me, baby?"

The camera catches his eye. His fantasies seize upon it. The polaroids had been good fun, so why not indulge them?

"I've got some ideas."

* * *

Roger is relieved to return to his family. He'd always mocked John for his ' _happy at home_ ' line. He realized he can't have understood it at the time. Just looking at Ed cuddled up with their daughter made his heart sing. Domestic bliss suited them both.

The prospect of his husband being around more, now he'd stripped back his work commitments, was heavenly.

"Good day, sweetheart?" Ed yawns, looking up from the novel he'd been reading. Some John Le Carré thriller. He'd grown bored of the cutesy, animal-themed picture books he read to Poppy. Espionage was much more exciting. He'd yet to see any distinguishable reaction in his daughter, of course.

" _Weird_ " Roger summarises, sinking into position in his favorite armchair, "Working with Fred's voice without him being there, it's odd. I keep waiting for his opinion on the mix. For him to ask if there's time to head back into the booth and do another take."

The band worked with an echo. A voice they could hear but couldn't respond to.

"And there's _John_ " the drummer exhales, "I know he wants to be in the studio. He wants to do justice by Fred, like we all do, but the second work's done he's going to bounce. I can _feel_ it". He tries not to sound bitter and fails miserably. Searching for comfort in Brian's commitment to the band didn't work as he hoped, either.

He just wanted his original family back together. Wanted them to be there for him as he grew old with his new one.

"Erica wouldn't tell me what's really on his mind. I can respect that, but Christ if it doesn't irritate me at the same time."

"She's acting oddly too" Ed confesses, "She didn't like it when I told her I was stepping back from work for a while. I think she finds it frightening, not doing anything."

Poppy gargles in his arm, blue eyes opening slowly. Her little lips tilt upwards, forming a smile. It reminds her father that he'd made the right decision. He'd started to feel guilty, his conscience reminding him of how damn hard she'd worked in getting their show off the ground. Those times when he'd been distracted by personal issues, she'd been there to keep them both afloat. She'd cuss him for it, but he felt like he _owed_ her.

He'd found out from Roger that she was charging ahead with the documentary. He wasn't resentful. A little disappointed, admittedly. She'd always said they did things together or not at all.

"I'm glad you're here" the drummer smiles, reaching across to take his partner's hand, "I'm not so afraid about what the future holds, having you to come home to". He tucks a brushed cotton blanket under Poppy's chin. The baby was starting to drift off again, satisfied after a successful feeding. "I love you both."

Ed gives a long, exaggerated ' _aww_ '. The sound inadvertently wakes their daughter from her peaceful slumber. He apologizes profusely, promising her every stuffed toy and plaything she could eve want. Roger chuckles. He couldn't have hoped for a more dedicated person to raise a kid with.

"You're such a good wife."

"Good enough to cook dinner for?"

Ed passes Poppy over to Roger and makes his way to the kitchen. He ignites the stove. A home-baked lasagna rests on the second shelf, the first he'd ever made. He'd never been a good cook, but he enjoyed the preparation. He'd never had the time to do anything especially fancy before. He couldn't be sure that it would taste nice, but it was made with love.

He wonders whether he ought to pass the recipe onto Erica. Give her something wholesome and stressfree to do.

"Ooh!" Ed dives into a nearby drawer and extracts an old apron. Tying it around his waist, he presents himself proudly to his husband and daughter.

Roger breaks out into an ecstatic grin. He never got tired of seeing the 'World's Best Wife' apron. It had faded somewhat, the effect of several washes and one too many cooking disasters. It could be reduced to bare threads and they'd still cling to it.

* * *

"Do you think Freddie's watching?" John queries, head sinking into his pillow.

Erica, her legs still jelly, just about manages to switch the camera off. She immediately hides the tape away at the bottom of her closet. Making it was a thrill, one of those couples always discussed but never seemed to do, but she knew herself too well to risk a mishap. It would only take one mixup with the documentary tapes, or a passing child in search of a cartoon VHS.

"I hope he wasn't watching just now" she retorts, hobbling back to the comfort of the bed. She stretches her legs out, eager to return the feeling to them. While she wriggles, she catches sight of a clear, red handprint on her thigh. Her knees hadn't faired much better.

It looked like sundresses were out for the time being.

She could easily imagine Freddie looking down at their shenanigans. He'd avert his gaze, cocktail in hand, a smirk lingering under his mustache. " _My, my_ " he'd say, " _That's my Deaky_."

"I do think he likes to keep an eye on us all" she answers sincerely, "Just to check we're all happy and healthy."

John crosses his arms across his chest, expression worryingly pensive. "Would he approve, do you think?"

"Of you turning me into a pornstar?"

He chokes on nothing in particular, a chesty cough forcing him upwards. Erica pats his back, trying not to giggle. She knew what he was referring to, but the opportunity to make him laugh had been too good to miss.

"He loved you, John. So much. He'd support you no matter what."

John relaxes again, as much as a preoccupied man could. His poise against the mattress suggested a character ready for bed, but the way he fiddled with the buttons of his pajama top spoke of someone gripped by inner turmoil.

Erica molds her body to his, arms wrapped around his waist, her touch soothing. "You're not abandoning anyone" she states, "You're doing what you think is best for you."

"But Brian and Rog are my best friends" the bassist commiserates, "We've been through so much together."

"And so they have every reason to understand" his wife urges, "You don't owe anyone anything, Habibi. Your welfare has to come first. Besides, you can still be _mates_."

She refused to believe the other two boys could be _resentful_ in any way. They were brothers first, and bandmates second. Their consideration for one another rose above their consideration for Queen, surely?

She thinks back to Roger. His fears about John quitting suggested the drummer saw a future for the band _after_ Freddie. The idea rings as wholly ridiculous so soon after they'd lost the singer. Even if they could find someone with a mindblowing voice, it wouldn't be the same, would it?

"It'll be strange. Not being involved in music in some way" John concedes, inviting the woman to rest her head on his chest, "I'll get to spend more time with the kids, though. That'll be nice."

There'd be no more tours to embark upon. True, he had the album to finish, but that was easily balanced with home life. He was more than financially stable, too. If his enthusiasm for the craft was gone, what other reason was there to carry on working?

He could watch his children grow. Take George to school, when she was old enough. Teach Arthur everything the toddler needed to know. He could be there for Erica at the end of a long, hard day, a kiss and reassuring words on his lips. Live the purely domestic life he'd always strived for. No distractions, no chaos. Just _family_.

The woman sniggers softly. "You could become a _house husband_."

"I'll dress like Fred did in the _I Want to Break Free_ video" John quips.

" _Oh_ , yes please" Erica teases.

Noticing the outlines of a smug grin through the shadows, she eases him on top of her.

John traces the sharp carvings of her face. His thumb settles on her bottom lip. _God_ , she was beautiful. Flawless and disheveled at the same time. Confidence in her stare, the kind that told him she was proud of what they'd got up to throughout the evening, coupled with an unabashed acquiescence.

He'd never been able to gauge who was _actually_ in charge.

"I look good in a skirt" he jests.

Erica whistles. "I don't doubt it". She cups his behind, squeezing comically. She hopes he'll kiss her again, let his lips travel downward. She still ached from earlier interactions, but she wouldn't object to a second round. Instead, John laughs, sweet and boyish, the _most_ gratifying sound after the months he'd been having. "What is it?"

John shakes his head. "I bet Freddie's _loving_ this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time might skip in big jumps from now on if that's okay. Next chapter goes right ahead to 1993, if that's okay by everyone.
> 
> We all know what John decides.
> 
> I thought it would be interesting to see how Ed and Erica reflect on their situations. I'm living for Ed being a protective father. Bear in mind the appearances his mother's made in this story. He had a shitty childhood. I can easily understand him making sure his kids are loved above all else.
> 
> Erica adores her children too, obviously, but she's always been much more career-orientated in my mind. Her relationship with her mother is complicated. It makes sense to me that her relationship with her children might not be as intense as Ed's.
> 
> What are your predictions?
> 
> Also happy to answer any questions you might have about my development of Ed and Erica. They've evolved a lot from my initial plans!
> 
> John's Q&A inspired by this actual one I found! www.deaky.net/rain/questionE.html


	42. I'm Not Gonna Crack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Summer 1994. Morale is low. A surprise revelation and a birthday party for Poppy offer some relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Lithium by Nirvana

Making a documentary had been fun in 1985. Unbothered by deadlines and uptight bosses, they'd loved every minute. They weren't so ecstatic this time around. Too often it felt like a chore. Progress was slow. The band was painstaking in its development of the album, and Ed's life revolved almost exclusively around Roger and Poppy.

Erica didn't want to be bitter about the inactivity. For the time being, she had an unrelenting summer to blame for her foul mood. The sun seemed to reserve its fiercest rays for the area of London in which their studio sat. Heat crept into every room, under every thin layer of clothing.

Fanning himself with her copy of _Cosmo_ , Ed makes a grim assessment of their work so far. "There's not enough studio footage" he observes, hitting pause on the tape, "We could fill it out with footage from the tribute gig-" His eyes snap over to his partner. "Are you even listening?"

Erica tears open her third bag of chips of the day, destined to join the four empty packets littering the desk. "Sounds good" she mumbles.

Ed swivels his chair around to face hers. "I don't get it. You whine that we don't work enough, but you're barely making an effort" he criticizes.

His colleague vents her frustration toward her snack, a chip disintegrating in her hand she grasps it so hard. She aims another at the monitor. "It's _shit_ ," she says, "We've been at it for years now, and we aren't getting anywhere."

She didn't have the TV show to fall back on, either. Together they'd managed to squeeze a season out the previous year, but Ed had shown no enormous enthusiasm for another. She'd kept busy by acting as a producer for other programs, but none of them offered her the fulfillment she got from her own work.

"It might turn out better if you relaxed a little" Ed argues, "Face it, you're knackered. The _Magic_ documentary turned out like it did because we didn't take it too seriously. We took it easy."

"We're not twenty-three anymore."

 _No_ , they were _thirty-two_. Ed embraced the age when his birthday came around. Erica didn't. The years left few marks on either of their appearances, but she definitely _felt_ older.

Ed watches his friend sink her head into her hands. The chips lose their comforting appeal. She casts the bag aside, half-finished, an arm curling about her stomach. A sign that she'd finally eaten too many, to anyone else's eyes. Ed notices the distinct lack of cigarette cartons lying about, too. If she was so stressed, why wasn't she pacing the back alley puffing her anxieties away like normal?

"Why don't you pop out for a smoke?" he suggests, awaiting her reply with narrowed eyes.

"Didn't think you approved."

"I don't let you smoke anywhere near Poppy. You're welcome to head outside and do it."

"Don't feel like it."

The empty foil packets become an important clue. He'd only ever seen her devour snacks under very particular circumstances. Potato chips had been her foremost craving two times before.

"Are you pregnant?" he poses.

Erica lifts her head. The frown painted across her brow suggested an impassioned _no_ , but the shock that fills her eyes gave a reluctant _yes_. She opts for denial, that old friend of hers. " _No_ " she declares, the temperature in the room suddenly skyrocketing, "How many times? I _don't_ want more. John's already got six running around. Do you really think we're so careless that we wouldn't take precautions?"

Ed scoffs. He wasn't so easily fooled. "No, I think you fuck like rabbits and own a condom supply about as substantial as the Pope's."

A strange sound slips from the woman's lips, something between a snarl and a giggle. She pushes her seat back, intent on stepping out before he can probe her further. Her legs fail her on the first attempt, her feet pooling like jelly in her sneakers. She tries again, successfully this time.

"Thank God you're funny, Tetley" she retorts.

The short distance to the door stretches out before her. Her steps slow, movement restricted by the tightness forming in her chest. Christ, she _was_ knackered, wasn't she? The defiant little wretch that grew in her stomach didn't help. If she could just make it into the corridor and find somewhere to rest her head for a while...

"Erica?" Ed asks, leaping up to steady her, "What's wrong?"

"Just need some fresh air" she insists, stumbling into him, "Then we can crack on with this-"

She faints before she can finish her sentence.

When she finally wakes again, she finds herself curled up in the ER. In one ear, an aging doctor delivers a stark warning about working less. In the other, a kind nurse offers her congratulations on something. Ed hovers between the two, a slender bleach-blonde apparition just about visible at the foot of her bed, an ' _I told you so_ ' on his lips.

* * *

John's pulling his coat on and heading for the parking lot the second he hangs up. Roger watches him sprint away. Reminds the bassist to keep him updated on how Erica was. He suspected the younger man had been desperate for a reason to take an early exit. His bandmates had asked for clarity on his plans post-album. Brian was tactful about it, gently nudging John towards an admission that retirement was his intended road.

Roger bluntly demanded he tells them whether he planned to leave the band.

A phone call from Ed had arrived just in time. _Saved by the bell_ , he thinks darkly.

He aims a stick at the snare drum for no particular reason. The beat times well with the intricate riff Brian improvises. He plays along animatedly until the guitarist raises his pick. "Just a minute, Rog" he requests, "I need to get this bit down."

"Why can't we just play together?" the drummer complains, "We always used to."

"There's no point without Deaky," Brian says diplomatically.

Roger mutters grumpily. "I doubt he'd care."

His bandmate sets his guitar aside and fixes him with a disappointed stare, hands on his hips. "That's not fair" he contests. The prospect of John bowing out of the industry saddened him as much as it did the blonde, but he didn't see the point in being bitter about it. They'd all lost a friend. It was up to each of them how they dealt with the loss.

Roger makes his thoughts known by kicking the bass drum. The skin rattles, worn down by months of hard work. "You know as well as I do that he's going to ditch us the second this album is finished" he hurls.

Brian shakes his head wearily. "If that's what he chooses, I respect it". He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "I need coffee. Want anything?"

"The same" his bandmate grunts.

Reaching for the door handle, the guitarist grins. "Would it cheer you up if I gave you an extra sugar?"

"Piss off, Bri."

His next interruption isn't such a bother. Ed, on his daily visit to the studio, radiant as ever and momentarily separated from their young daughter. Roger waves his sticks in a mock greeting. "Thank God you're here" he exhales, "I'm going spare today."

Ed joins him on the drum risers, tapping idly at the cymbals with painted nails. "There's a lot of that going around at the minute" he returns, "Erica's in a state."

"I don't know how John keeps up with her."

Roger watches with intrigue as his partner settles himself on his lap. He wriggles his bottom about slightly, claiming he was having a hard time getting comfortable. He doesn't need to glance over his shoulder to know his husband is enjoying the sensation. The heavy breaths tickling the back of his neck were enough. "How do _you_ keep up with _me_?" he challenges.

"At my age, I'm not sure" Roger answers. He presses a kiss to his neck. "But you're worth the effort."

Ed steadies himself on the older man's thighs. He's glad he'd opted for the flimsy, canvas shorts he wears. He shifts again, deliberately pressing his behind against the drummer's crotch. "Can you teach me something?" he requests, slipping the drumsticks from his hands.

"What's in it for me?"

Roger steals the sticks back when they're slapped against his knee. He spins Ed around so he can register the delightfully smug expression he wears. "Feeling cheeky are we, Tetley?"

Ed answers with a grin. He doublechecks his surroundings then slowly slips off the older man's lap, landing in a kneeling position. Delicate fingers trace the metal of his belt buckle, and with a simple motion, he undoes it.

Roger's eyes droop shut inadvertently. He'd never get over that sound. The pop of the top button of his jeans as its released. The zipper being dragged down. The smack of wet lips. A sinful, simple little melody. He buries his hands into his lover's hair in anticipation.

_God bless rock n' roll._

He just about hears Brian speak through the intercom, deaf to almost everything except the sweet, pornographic noises Ed creates as he spreads his lips around him. "Dave said Ed's just arrived" the guitarist drones, "Does he want a coffee too?"

The journalist withdraws with a loud pop. "Wouldn't mind one actually" he pipes up.

Roger nods wordlessly at the glass partition. As soon as his bandmate has gone again, he clasps his husband by the roots and slides his length back into his husband's mouth. " _Fucking hell_ " he growls, every muscle twitching frantically. He's feeling thoroughly worked up, stars bursting behind his eyelids, those dyed blonde locks bobbing rhythmically between his thighs, when the man moves again.

"Honestly, I think I'm getting hooked on caffeine," Ed remarks, willfully ignorant to his torture of the drummer, "Is coffee bad for you? The papers all say different things-"

" _Ed_ " Roger bleats, cadence high and needy.

"Oh, _alright,_ " he says. A twinkle in his eye, he clears his throat and takes him right to the hilt.

* * *

A person recently discharged from hospital might have sought solace in silence. With a house full of children, that was a far-off prospect. Erica filled empty thoughts with one of her Nirvana albums.

John's taken aback by the sound when he enters the bedroom, raw vocals and scratchy guitars about as far from tranquility as he could imagine. He doesn't begrudge her the music. The choice made him smile, in fact. It was so typically _her_ that he no choice but to love it.

"How are you feeling now, love?" he greets, perching on the bed's edge.

Erica laughs humorlessly. "Like I've been hit by a truck". She tries to sit up so she can look at him properly. Actually deliver her news face-to-face. The pounding in her head resumes barely three inches off the pillow. She falls back with a groan, the room spinning. Her stomach gave a worrying grumble. The fluids she'd been pumped full of in the ER were starting to wear off. Her sickness lingers like a threat in the back of her throat.

"I'm sorry, Habibi," she says, reaching blindly for his hand.

He meets her halfway and threads his fingers with hers. "For what?" he chortles.

"For worrying you. It's not what you need right now."

John leans down to kiss her temple. "All I need is for you to be well again" he soothes. 

The couple falls quiet for a moment. Fatigue drags Erica's eyelids down, but her rampant aches and pains make sleep impossible. She directs her discomfort toward the record player and reflects on the times when she and Ed had been lucky enough to meet the band. Those glorious encounters where they'd dismiss the show's nervy sound engineers and let them turn the amplifiers up to number ten. Watch the audience's eyelashes singe. Await a fine for yet another broken curfew.

Hormones scattered, her sadness deepens. Another friendship cut short. Another bright light dimmed before its time.

The 1990s dealt haphazardly with the world's musical talent.

John is not so easily waylaid. While she hums, he lets his sights drift to her middle, hidden under the layers of blankets. He'd not noticed anything even when he had seen her midriff. She'd been artful in disguising her morning sickness this time around, too. The doctors had told him that she suffered an extreme form. It had a stupidly complicated name that he couldn't remember.

He realizes that she must have been suffering for some weeks now and hadn't said a word. Kept him shielded from it. He wasn't sure whether to feel insulted or flattered. Doubtless, she'd argue that she wanted to spare him the stress. He shakes his head. She'd never stop trying to protect him, would she?

"What's going on, sweetheart?" he asks, "And don't give me your ' _I'm fine_ ' speech because it won't work."

Erica peers up at him. The tired haze that encircles her vision thickens. Tears spill readily. She dabs furiously at the corners of her eyes, hellbent on stemming the flow. Her cheeks sting sharply. She'd not wept properly in too long. She'd wanted to, but never let herself. "We've worked so hard to get where we are" she sobs, "I'm terrified we'll lose it all somehow."

"I keep thinking about Freddie, and those final sessions at Montreux. He was dying and he did so much. Worked so hard, and through so much pain. I know it sounds silly, but the idea of _not_ working my arse off makes me feel as though I'm doing him a disservice."

Tenderly, John draws her into a loving embrace. He strokes her hair while she cries, his heart in his throat, pained by the wretched waves in which her anxieties spill out. "Fred did love working hard" he counsels, "But he also knew when to stop. The band, the music, it was all important to him, but he knew his limits". He glances upward, hoping to see some sign that his friend was watching. "He adored you. If he was here now, he'd tell you to make time for yourself."

Erica clings to him, burying her face into his sweater. She'd apologize for the wet splotches she leaves later. She already felt foolish. How often had she preached to him about opening up? About how feeling shit was valid? She'd been so intent on acting as a strong wall for him to lean on that she'd entirely forgotten to allow herself a moment.

Instead, she'd diverted it all into her job. Taken it out on Ed. Made their work a burden.

"There's something else" she whimpers.

"I know. The doctors told me."

John doesn't know what to do when she starts sobbing again. It wasn't happy cries he was hearing. "We don't have to keep it, if you don't want" he offers.

Erica pulls away from him, fear twisting her features. "No, Habibi-"

"It's okay" he reassures her, "I know you didn't want another one. I'm not even sure _I_ do, the way the others run me ragged."

She guides his hands to her stomach, flat but warm with the promise of new life. "I want to keep it," she tells him, "It's just a lot to deal with". She brushes her cheeks, determined to see the last of her tears. "I'm sorry for crying about it-"

John cups her face with his hands, thumbs drawing soft patterns into her skin. " _Stop apologizing_."

Erica fights to stop herself from sniffling again. It wasn't further sorrow that brought it out in her. She was touched. So hopelessly enamored with this lovely man and his compassion that she was reduced to tears. "At least I've got a reason to slow down now" she jokes, sinking against him, peace of mind in sight.

"I know the doctors told you to stop working" her husband reiterates, "But I understand if you feel you need to carry on in some way."

She frowns. Worries about her job hadn't totally evaded her just yet, but the demands to create didn't appear so loud with him by her side. The nine months of growth ahead of her was work in itself. Whether it was enough to keep her occupied, she couldn't yet tell. "Actually" she resolves, "I think I might take it easy for a while."

* * *

The youngest of the Taylor clan jabs a finger into the slice of cake presented to her. She's fascinated by the pink frosting that splatters onto her skin. Like all things that intrigued her, she felt compelled to taste it. Unlike the toys she regularly gnawed on, the frosting tasted _good_. She giggles to herself, flapping her arms excitedly.

Arthur spots her and assumes whatever she'd done must have been fun. He angles his head back, ready to sink it into his own slice. His mother stops him just in time. " _Nicely_ , omri" she tutors, "Watch your sister."

George cuts a neat chunk from her piece with her fork and lifts it to her mouth. Arthur does his best to copy. He's too enthusiastic at first and ends up showering John with crumbs.

"Did you really bake this?" Brian asks, glancing along the table to Ed, "It's delicious."

The blonde nods proudly. "All my own work."

They were all pleasantly surprised. Ed had boasted all week that his daughter's birthday cake would be a work of art. It had turned out well. Two fluffy layers of funfetti sponge were melded together with strawberry jelly. On top was a generous helping of frosting and lots of sprinkles. Two candles had been neatly placed in the middle, sweetly marking the two years that had passed since Poppy first appeared in their lives.

Roger made a point of saying that he'd always believed in his husband.

"Why doesn't Poppy have a mommy?" George poses, out of nowhere. The adults aren't shocked by the inquiry. It was clear the girl meant no offense. She was just curious like most seven-year-olds. "Not all kids have a mom and dad" Ed answers kindly, "Some have only one. Others have two dads, or two moms. They're still loved in the same way."

George is content with that. "Okay!" she nods, before returning her focus to her food. Erica kisses her friend's cheek, grateful that he was helping her raise a thoughtful daughter.

"Right" Roger declares, gathering the empty plates together, "Are we watching this movie or what?"

One of Brian's gifts to little Poppy was a VHS copy of _Jurassic Park_. The gang was every bit as obsessed with it as their children were. Perhaps not outwardly so, of course. A scramble for dominance of the television set follows. One of the May children seizes the remote and holds it aloft like King Arthur wielding Excalibur.

As he brushes the remnants of cake and confetti from his lap, something occurs to John. The whole group was together, and not in a studio setting. They were all in a good mood. All in harmony. He bites his lip. Would his revelation spoil the mood? Or was it best to take advantage of this quiet moment while he could?

He spares a glance toward Poppy, the diva of the Taylor household. He didn't want to upstage her either. She wouldn't understand his words, but she'd realize she was no longer the center of attention in a heartbeat. He's _convinced_ the girl glares at him, silently vowing frosting-related revenge.

"Everything okay in there, Deaky?" Brian frets, noticing his bandmate's confusion.

John panics. "Erica's pregnant."

A stunned silence falls over the group. The bassist braces himself for a poke on the arm from his wife. Blessedly, she doesn't have the energy. "It's true" she nods, patting her belly instinctively, "There's going to be yet another little bastard running about". She cups a hand over her mouth, focus flickering to the flock of children sitting nearby. None seem to notice, far too absorbed in their attempts to get the VCR working.

Ed pretends to be scandalized. He scoops Poppy up from her highchair and holds her close to his chest, covering her ears.

"Bloody hell, John" Roger wheezes, fighting back a smirk, "Is there a colony somewhere that needs repopulating?"

The man blushes. Erica manages a giggle and pats her husband's hand sympathetically. "I think there was _something else_ he meant to reveal, actually."

 _His impending retirement_.

The drummer's face falls. He braces himself for the inevitable, only to be distracted by Arthur, hanging on his leg like a baby panda. He shakes gently in an attempt to dislodge the child. It takes the intervention of Brian, who'd become a minor hero for actually inserting the tape, for him to be released. Soon, everyone's squeezing around the television set.

Ed sits cross-legged amongst the kids, happily sharing all the prehistoric facts he knew. Erica reckons he'd made most of them up, but she wouldn't tell.

"What was it you were going to say, Deaky?" Roger wonders.

Brian emerges from the preschool pileup he'd been subjected to by his new fans. "Oh, yeah" he recalls, "Was it important?"

John shakes his head. It could wait. He had good company to revel in. The roaring of dinosaurs and screams of excited children didn't make a particularly suitable backdrop for such an announcement either, he thought. "I'll tell you afterward," he says, snuggling down to enjoy the film.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed :-) All thoughts welcome as always


	43. Made in Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1995\. With Made in Heaven complete, the boys prepare to say goodbye. Erica gives birth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short but sweet one
> 
> Music mentioned:  
> Made in Heaven by Queen

Roger was proud of himself.

The odds hadn't been great when they first took on Freddie's last recordings. What they had was exquisite in quality, but low in quantity. They hadn't the material for a full album. Dabbling on Brian's part had led to the band revisiting their late friend's solo works.

 _I Was Born to Love You_ had worked out particularly well. He compliments his own drum work as he listens back to it. They'd transformed the song into an upbeat homage. There was a video in the works; a compilation of all their best moments over the years.

Arguments had occurred. Sparks flew just as easily with the three of them. There'd been added pressure this time around, of course. The terrifying prospect of not doing justice by Fred's last recordings hung over them all. John's decision to retire from music entirely caused further anxiety.

Roger tried not to feel bitter. He wanted to support his friend. He wasn't happy about it, though. It felt too much like losing a family member.

"Oh _Lord_ , you're in a bad mood" Ed discerns, hesitating in the doorway, "I'd better carry on playing unicorns with Poppy-"

His partner shakes his head, chuckling lightly. "Park your arse down here" he instructs.

The younger man does as he's told, tottering along the carpet gracefully, wary of spilling his tea. Some way down the hall, a toddler can be heard _neighing_. Poppy had created clay unicorns with her fathers earlier in the week and hadn't yet been able to put them down.

"If you're still in a fit about John, I'll pour this right on your lap" Ed warns, crossing his legs demurely, "He's doing what's best for him. We should respect that."

Erica had already been forced to have a stern word with the drummer. It wasn't in John's interests to be _guilt-tripped_. The last few years had been unforgivably heavy, physically, and mentally. If bowing out from the industry was the solution, _so fucking be it_.

Brian was more sympathetic, an endless font of compassion as he was, but even he worried about Deaky's absence from the group.

"It isn't just him stepping back from the band" Roger reiterates, "You know as well as I do, that'll be it between him and us. We won't hear from him again."

"And if that is the case, you'll have to deal with it" Ed reasons, "His decisions are valid."

The drummer pouts. "I hate it when you're pragmatic" he grumbles.

Ed beams proudly. "One of us has to be."

The glint of his wedding ring catches his eye. Come Christmas, their's would be a commitment five years strong. He'd barely noticed the years that flew by. Those uncertain episodes the couple had endured since their very first hookup never really played on his mind, either. They were in it for the long haul, and perfectly happy to be that way.

They'd even discussed the possibility of another child with Debbie.

"I think I'm starting to make my peace with it" Roger voices, leaning back casually, "Fred being gone, I mean. It still hurts like Hell, obviously, but I'm not so _angry_ about losing him."

Ed sets his cup aside so he can hold his husband's hand supportively.

These hadn't been _easy_ days. Supporting a spouse through their grief was difficult while attempting to process one's own. Other hurdles had presented themselves. Ed's tendency to itch for alcohol when under extreme stress. Those horrible final memories of Craig, a victim of the very same disease as Fred.

Somehow, they'd navigated it. Emerged a stronger couple, even.

"I don't know if I'd have done it without you" the drummer confesses, pressing a kiss to the back of the man's hand. He chips in further before the journalist can argue. "You mean the world to me. You know that, right?"

Ed jerks coyly. "I couldn't possibly comment" he drawls, "But _yes_. I'm quite comfortable being the center of your universe."

Roger's relieved when he actually looks at him. He hopes his every heartfelt sentiment could be translated into the look he gives him. Words would never do justice by the sensation, so _action_ was all he had. Truly, he couldn't possibly deserve the man, not after the way he'd played him in previous years. Yet, here he was, prepared to stick by him right until the end.

"I really love you, Tetley" he declares.

His partner is ready to taunt him, until he finally returns his gaze. There was the love he'd always hoped for, right under his nose. The stupid flirtations and pranks they'd bandied back in Munich took on new meaning. This was their history, imperfect but genuine.

"I love you too, Taylor."

* * *

"Just shove it back in there" Erica groans, "I'll try again another day". Alas, her doctors were unable to oblige. She'd arrived too late to receive any kind of drug. She could only suffer through it. Feel every agonizing pang.

Childbirth was no easier on her third attempt. It still felt as though she were about to be torn in two, the pressure at her middle so severe she was certain she'd snap.

Comfort from the experts didn't ease her suffering. Constantly they'd assured her that she was ' _doing great_ '. She didn't fucking well feel like it. Indeed, it was insulting to her that they'd try to counsel her through it in such a puerile way. She wasn't a kid spelling out their name for the first time. She was a grown woman with something the size of a watermelon forcing its way out of her.

"I can't do it" she sobs, exhausted by the torture. The entire pregnancy had been difficult, even more so than the previous two. Why she hadn't had her tubes tied the second Arthur was born she couldn't understand. Children were lovely, by all means, but delivering them was nothing short of a nightmare.

John's there, as he always was, squeezing her hand, accepting that she might break his bones as her contractions progressed. "You can do it, love" he soothes, "Just a little bit more."

" _Fuck this_ " his wife screams, pushing down hard, "I've changed my mind. I can't do it."

The pain vanishes the second her son is laid in her arms.

Wriggling, bawling as he did, he was _beautiful_. The most perfect blend of her and John. Delicate honey-toned skin, deep brown eyes, a sweet clump of auburn curls. Remarkably curious, the baby surveys his surroundings, perhaps alarmed to find himself thrust into the real world.

"Hey there" Erica gasps, transfixed.

John watches his newest child take their first breaths, eyes wide in awe. This was the seventh, and hopefully the _last_ , to be born with the Deacon name, and he was no less amazed. The woman he'd married was unbelievable. That she should be able to produce something so magnificent, endure so much pain? He'd never be able to thank her enough.

"What should we call him?" he utters, spellbound.

"James" Erica proposes, "For Jim."

They'd received a few postcards from the Irishman. Just enough for them to know that he was well.

"Sounds perfect" John seconds. He gently touches his newborn son's cheek. The baby was so impossibly _small_ that it left him terrified. It didn't matter that he'd raised six children before him. He'd fret every waking hour.

At least he could be sure he'd be there as the boy grew. A promise that made his departure from the band worth it.

"You, the kids," he says, "You're my life."

Erica sniffles, his vision starting to clear. Dazed, she notes little James' every movement, his every breath. "I want to cry, but I'm so _tired_ " she laughs, thoroughly burnt out. 

"I'll go call the others" John shares, eager to spread the joy he felt to the rest of the gang.

His love reaches out to stop him. She keeps him close, wanting to savor such a sentimental moment. "Stay with me, Habibi" she urges.

The bassist obliges immediately, resuming once more in his caresses. Gladly he nurses her in his arms. Brought to the very brink of tears, his heart swelled so, a shooting star searing right through his very soul. The joy of new life, the heartache of Fred not being around to witness it. He surrenders to it all. "Of course, love" he hushes, "Always."

* * *

_In these days of cool reflection_

_You come to me and everything seems alright_

Everything was alright. They'd made it. Completed the final album. Done right by the friend they missed so dearly. The finished copy rotates on the record player, one of a thousand copies that would surely fly off the shelves in the coming weeks.

The cover was suitably poignant. The remaining members could be seen looking on at the statue of Freddie that had been erected in Montreux, bathed in the subtle sunlight of Lake Geneva. It felt _right_. A fitting goodbye.

_In these days of cold affections_

_You sit by me and everything's fine_

"How's Erica?" Brian enquires, momentarily wrenching himself from his pensive thoughts.

"She's doing well" John happily reports, "She appreciated the presents you sent."

A little parcel from Anita and Brian had arrived on the woman's ward. A variety of adorable gifts could be found inside. Clothes for little James, and soft toys to cling to. Mrs. Deacon's favorite comfort foods, no doubt essential to her recovery. Some snaps from the guitarist's latest bout of star-gazing.

_This could be Heaven for everyone_

_This world could be fed, this world could be fun_

"Never thought we'd end up here" Roger laments.

"Because of how we met those two?" Brian questions.

It was difficult to comprehend life without Ed and Erica. That eternally chaotic duo. None of them had anticipated being affected in such a way when they first met the pair. Not only were they loving _partners_ or _parents_ , but they were also _friends_. There until the last.

_This could be Heaven for everyone_

_This world could be free, this world could be one_

"I can barely remember _Live Aid_ now" John realizes, scratching thoughtfully at his grey hairs, "Except _her_."

Roger feigns a vomiting motion. Brian rolls his eyes and offers his youngest bandmate an encouraging smile.

"Will we ever found out what happened on that fateful coked-up night, Rog?" he asks, fascinated. He'd been a reluctant counselor throughout much of the couple's troubles. Even been the first to hear the blonde admit that he was attracted to men. The ice cream speech would live on in his mind until old age, whether he wanted it to or not.

The drummer raises his brows suggestively. "Didn't think I'd have to explain to you how _sex_ works, mate, but I'll do my best" He clears his throat. "When two people fancy each other-"

"I know _that_ you bimbo" Brian presses, "But that night you and Ed shared obviously meant so much. You've never really spoken about it."

He's met with a shrug. The mystery of how he and Ed had come to be would remain private. After all, it didn't really matter _how_ they'd happened, just that they'd managed to stick by one another.

_In this world of cool deception_

_Just your smile can smooth my ride_

"I suppose this is goodbye, isn't it?" Roger poses, eyes flickering over to John.

The bassist scrunches his features curiously. "Who says?"

" _You_ said."

John sighs. He'd only held off in conceding his retirement plans because he'd feared the others' reaction. From their first gig together, way back in '71, they'd been there for him. Witnessed all his defining moments. Not working with them day after day was daunting to consider.

But the industry was intimidating enough on its own. Creating the final album with the boys had been fun, but now it was finished he felt quite empty. Galavanting across the globe, spending endless amounts of time in the studio; it didn't hold the appeal that it used to. And there was no Fred around to help him cope with the attention.

Family was his main source of contentment. He'd devote the rest of his days to them.

_These troubled days of cruel rejection_

_You come to me, soothe my troubled mind_

"I might not see you two every day. Perhaps not talk to you as often as I did" John begins, "But it doesn't mean I love you any less."

Roger nods quietly.

"We'll miss you, Deaky" Brian admits.

_Yeah, this could be Heaven for everyone_

"You too, mate."

The boys idly share memories and oncoming plans, until Erica waddles her way into the studio. She attempts to steal the finished vinyl from its place on the record player but is hastily swatted away by Brian, who cheekily informs her she'd have to queue to purchase it like the rest of the public.

"What are you doing here?" John quizzes, unaware she'd been discharged from hospital.

The woman boldly states that she'd discharged herself, tired of lying of stewing in her bed for days on end. Roger bites back a joke he'd thought up about her making a habit of lying on her back. A cautionary glare from her husband had pushed him toward silence. He makes a mental note to repeat it to Ed once he was home. _He'd_ appreciate it.

"You coming home then?" Erica invites.

"Absolutely" John answers, not missing a beat.

_This could be Heaven for everyone_

His bandmates study him as he abandons his seat, the album's title track reaching its crescendo. Any doubts they'd had about the bassist's departure are quashed in an instant. It made sense. Deaky's foremost passion had never really been music, delightful as the rock n' roll lifestyle was.

As his wife takes his hand, leans on him, grins contentedly, they understand. _That_ was what he was leaving for. _Love_.

"Promise we'll go stargazing soon" Erica appeals, turning her attention to the guitarist. She catches the wary glance her husband gives, the kind that reminded her she still needed to go steady. "And Rog, Ed mentioned something about a double date. Call me, yeah?"

The two nod. They didn't anticipate a follow-through of the plans, but they didn't mind.

The gang was changed, but not dissolved just yet.


	44. Life Goes On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1997\. The band prepares to say goodbye to John. But life is good, and it goes on...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music mentioned:  
> No One But You by Queen  
> Dreamers Ball by Queen  
> The Show Must Go On by Queen

The director shouts cut and John lets his hands fall to his sides. Perched on his amplifier, bass in his lap, he swings his legs idly, every other minute checking the clock on the far wall. He hadn't missed producing videos. Though the set was small and simple, he still felt overwhelmed. Not that he'd have been comfortable refusing his bandmates' offers.

One last song would do. And a final performance with Elton John in Paris later in the year, which he was dreading.

He'd spent a great deal of time asking himself whether he was right in his decision to retire. The peace he'd enjoyed since the completion of _Made in Heaven_ assured him that he'd chosen correctly. He was content to close the _Queen_ chapter of his life. The prospect of opening up a new one once 1997's obligations were through calmed his frayed nerves better than anything.

Brian and Roger study the space the bassist leaves between them. It was greater than it needed to be, allowing him to be as physically detached as he could without vanishing out of shot. They didn't take it personally. It was clear from the way their friend held himself, kept silent, stared off into space, that he was unhappy. They'd accepted that their days with the man were few, but the temptation to try and reach out of him was impossible to ignore.

"How's the family, Deaky?" Brian asks. It felt like the most appropriate topic given John's love of home life.

The bassist turns slowly, as if physically tearing himself away from the commentary running in his head. "Fine" he answers.

"And the little Jim is doing well I take it?"

"He's great, yeah". The faintest of smiles forms on his lips. "Very chatty. Picks up bits of Arabic as well as English."

Long gone were the days when the entire gang and their broods would gather together. The Deacons kept largely to themselves. Even Erica wasn't such a constant in their lives anymore. She only saw as much of Ed as she did because they worked together.

The director remerges on set. He has quick words with one of the cameramen then addresses the boys. "Places, please". On his way to his kit, Roger offers his struggling bandmate a warm smile. It very nearly goes unnoticed. He realizes how deep the younger man's suffering must run. He tries to conjure a comforting speech of some kind but assumes it'll fall on deaf ears.

Work continued, and John's walls grew ever higher.

* * *

Two television hosts perform a nervous samba backstage. In and around each other's spaces, they dance, hopping from foot to foot. Stiffly they endure last-minute checks to their appearances, to their microphones.

Those frantic moments just before they stepped into the limelight would always be the most nervewracking. Experience didn't make it easier. Once they were out there, talking, making the audience laugh, they were fine. It was actually taking that final leap that required so much courage.

Extended absences from the business didn't help.

As the show's ten-year anniversary drew nearer, the creative fervor they'd thrived on in their younger years had found them again. Making things felt good again. As such, the pair had managed to complete their documentary.

They were going to debut the first installment on the season premiere of their big return.

Which was all but five minutes away.

"Are you sure we shouldn't have waited longer?" Erica frets, peering through the curtains to get another glimpse of the audience. The stalls were packed. Additional seating had been set up on the fringes of the set to accommodate extra fans. Tickets had sold out before they'd even announced the guest list. The crowd was there for _them_. The hiatus hadn't dimmed their appreciation.

"It feels right to me" Ed voices, knotting his hand with hers, "I've _missed_ it, actually-"

His co-host gasps and wrenches him forward. Conscious of being spotted, the blonde is tactful in his surveillance of the room beyond. The hordes tightly packed into the space throw him off as they had her, but eventually, he spots what had shocked her so.

Four rows in, nestled snuggly on the center seat, sat _Mr. Michaels_.

"You're taking the _piss_ " Ed breathes, the sight of his old boss winding him.

Erica cackles. She hoped the old man would recognize the sound. God knew he'd heard it enough, usually when his back was turned. She couldn't believe she'd had to answer to him, once upon a time. "Perhaps he got here by mistake" she jokes, "Daft git."

Perhaps he'd turned up with the intention of heckling the pair? Hurl the obscenities of old at them, puffy pink face contorting poisonously. Maybe he was, in one of the universe's more baffling changes in direction, an _admirer_. Erica tries to picture it. Michaels sat in front of his television set happily laughing at their jokes, nodding his head approvingly at the political statements they made.

 _Surely not_.

"Can we get him kicked out?" Ed proposes, eyes narrowly mischievously.

"Let him stay" his colleague contends. She makes a mental note to direct her focus toward Mr. Michaels every chance she got. Not a single jibe aimed at the government would be made without her looking right at him. That way she could see whether he really had changed or just squirm as he always used to.

He'd be there, simply watching on, while they gave the show of a lifetime. Proved why they'd always been worth a shot. Reminded him that people like them could do incredible things.

Inspired once more, Erica claps her old friend on the back. "Come on then, Tetley" she urges, "We've got one hell of a show to put on."

The man groans. "Oh God, this isn't the start of another work-obsessed phase, is it?"

He was rightfully proud of the routine he'd fallen into. Poppy and Roger were balanced perfectly with his other commitments.

Blessedly, Erica had sought out a steady stride of her own. It was a shame it had taken a near-breakdown and a strenuous pregnancy to realize the importance of pacing oneself, but better to arrive there late than never, right?

She even had a holiday actually _planned_. Not a spur of the moment foray to foreign climbs. A scheduled break with John, to celebrate their ten years of marriage.

"I promise not to be so strict from now on" she assures him.

Ed curls his arms around her shoulders, planting a loving kiss on her forehead. "Bless you," he says, "Now let's go make a mockery of everything that old cunt out there believes in."

* * *

Brian dips his future bride low, long arms just about keeping her steady. Anita jokingly warns him not to drop her, though her tone grows less amused the closer her neat ginger updo got to the ground. A clap on the back from Roger almost topples them both. The drummer smirks, dispelling any hope they might have that he hadn't done it on purpose. 

Ed completes his serenade with a delicate flourish on the keys. Swinging around on the piano stool, he faces the happy couple. He raises his drink, orange juice served in a champagne flute at his insistence, and proposes a toast. "To Anita and Brian. A beautiful couple with beautiful hair."

The pair blush, pressing tightly into each other's sides.

A stylish engagement ring sparkles on the actress' finger. Roger had advised his bandmate on choosing the jewel. John had been invited along, as the band's resident marriage fanatic, but didn't turn up.

He wasn't at the engagement party, either. Sent his apologies over the phone, explaining that there was no one else to look after the kids while Erica was working.

A card from the bassist rests on the May family mantelpiece. The message inside was sweet, right up until the last line. ' _P.S. Would you mind if I threw peanuts at you while you stand at the altar?_ ' They'd all laughed appreciatively, though silently Roger and Brian questioned whether the man would actually turn up at the wedding, whenever it was.

This was the new normal. _No Deaky_.

Anita keeps them merry.

"Any tips for us?" she nudges, grinning toward to the Taylors. The blondes snicker initially, by their own assessment the very last people who ought to be dealing out relationship advice. On second thought, that wasn't entirely fair, was it? They'd stuck together for some years now. Even remained stable enough to start a family.

Provided everything went well with Debbie, they'd be welcoming another member soon. 

Such success was difficult to put into words, of course.

"Sex" Roger suggests, struggling to form a more serious answer.

"Buy a novelty apron that always cheers the other person up" Ed adds.

Brian chuckles. "That's what it is then," he says, " _A sense of humor_."

The drummer arches a brow. "Are we a _joke_ to you, May?"

His bandmate scoffs. He sincerely hoped they weren't given how often the man had pestered him about Ed over the years. " _What I meant_ is that, after all this time, you're still hilarious together. You always have a damn good laugh". He draws Anita close to him again, hand resting just above her hip. "I'll never forget the first interaction they had. I've never known two people _click_ so quickly."

Roger and Ed share a fond look.

The first tea party the gang ever had together. Ed had baked _scones,_ some of which were reserved purely for him. The older man hadn't been impressed.

_"What do you mean in denying a man his right to a scone?" he'd exclaimed, all smug and cheeky and gorgeous._

_"Your calloused little fingers are welcome to anything other than this plate" Ed corrected mischievously, "I'm taking these ones home with me."_

_"Guess I'll have to find something else to keep them busy, then."_

They could be forgiven for forgetting they had company. Reliving the memory was too sincere to ignore. Too cheerful. From separate spots within the room, the Taylors gaze.

They _did_ have a good laugh, didn't they? 

Anita beams, ever amused by the tales the group had to share. There were plenty of them. So many _adventures_ and _misadventures_. She'd been witness to quite a few of them, as integral a part of the unit as anyone else.

"We'll have to do some baking" she suggests.

"Or Ed could do the wedding cake" Brian chips in.

The journalist gives the ivories another elegant tickle. "Oh, no dear" he coos, tapping along the piano in search of the right note, "I'll be on entertainment."

He reaches the right sound. His hands instinctively fill out the rest, Freddie's lessons still fresh in his memory. Roger joins him on the stool. He doesn't interrupt, perfectly happy to watch his beloved husband play. Ed makes a handful of mistakes. He had a good reason. He was quite distracted by the perfect white smile trained his way, and the baby blue eyes studying his every intricate movement.

Anita twirls her fiance into a graceful poise, taking the lead as they chased the carpet. Brian had never danced to one of his own songs before, but if it had to happen, he was glad it was with her. 

No one worried, all grateful attendees of their very own _Dreamers Ball_.

* * *

Friends of the Deacons liked to remind them often that there were destinations _other_ than Bali. It was true. America was always a blast. And there where a myriad of stunning European capitals to explore. They'd very nearly arranged for their anniversary getaway to take place in such a city.

Yet once again they found themselves in that old beach house, now theirs by right, cuddled up on the very same couch they'd lounged, chatted, _fucked_ on during their first escapade in 1985, the Bali sunshine beating down on silky, golden sand.

Erica blinks back the slumber the lapping waves outside lulled her into. She lifts her head off John's chest to check that he's still awake too. She couldn't be certain. His countenance was perfectly serene, so calm he seemed to _glow_. The sight made her heart melt. With any luck, the definitive start of his retirement creeping near, he'd look that tranquil more often. "You still there?" she teases, "You look like you've ascended to the heavens."

John smiles sleepily. "I feel like it" he giggles, drawing tender patterns into his wife's skin. He winces suddenly. "My back isn't so peaceful, though."

Erica offers him another pillow to place under himself. "I _did_ suggest we move to the bedroom" she points out. She moves to shuffle off him, not wanting to exacerbate his aches, but he keeps her in place, restoring the thin blanket that covered them.

What was the point of escaping from the kids for two weeks if not to shag themselves silly whenever they got the chance?

"Suppose I wanted to revisit the old days" John speaks, drunk on forgotten images from those early sun-kissed trysts, "Back when I wasn't all _grey_."

Erica strokes his thinning curls fondly. "I think you're very sexy" she reminds him. Her fingers absentmindedly move to his face. Idly she traces the lines there, the dents that age and intense stress left behind. He _adored_ it when she did that. Didn't view his marks as flaws, but instead like carvings on a marble statue. Made him feel handsome again.

He peers at her hopefully. " _How_ sexy?"

"Honestly, Habibi, you can't even _cuddle_ for two minutes, can you?" she pokes.

John tucks a short curl behind her ear so he can take in her every flawless feature. "You're so beautiful" he compliments airily, forever amazed she'd picked _him_. His heart swells when he notices a blush creep to her cheeks.

"Even all my _wobbly bits_?" she invites. She wasn't without her insecurities. She maintained her fitness, but her figure had never fully recovered from her pregnancies. Sometimes she minded, particularly when she caught a glimpse of herself on the television. Never with John, though. She's reminded of his appreciation for her when he cups her behind, squeezing playfully. " _Especially_ those" he echoes, leaning in for a kiss.

They make out lazily for a little while, too comfortable laying where they were to get up to anything else.

"It's like the rest of the world fades away when we're here. All the worry and the anxiety. It all goes" John murmurs, "I'm never as happy as I am when I'm with you."

Erica nuzzles his neck. "One last performance, Habibi" she soothes, "Then you're all mine."

* * *

The patrons of the ballet hall rise to their feet. Awestruck, they applaud and watch as a legendary band takes one last bow. Elton John unites the boys in a supportive embrace. He congratulates them in turn on their performance, understanding how difficult it must have been without their frontman

John talks briefly with the singer before hurrying off stage, immediately sinking into his wife's arms. It hadn't been an easy song to end on. _The Show Must Go On_ , forever one of the most emotionally draining numbers. Every immaculately penned lyric reminded the bassist of his late friend. Of the tribute concert that had very nearly toppled him entirely. Of the trauma and pain and longing he'd endured since Freddie's passing.

 _But it was over now_. Peace was finally his. He'd never perform again.

Roger doesn't have time to process the impending loss. He's barely allowed a healing breath before Ed is charging into him. Still shaking with adrenaline, he manages to coax his husband a little further into the wings, away from prying eyes. Brian quicksteps out of earshot, offering the drummer one last encouraging nod.

"What is it?" Roger questions, "Why are you being weird?"

Ed grapples with him and plants a sloppy kiss on the other man's lips before drawing back excitedly. "Debbie called" he cries, "The test came back positive. She's pregnant."

"But that means-" The older man sweeps his partner up and spins him around, head thrown back in glee. "I can't believe it". He kisses him hard, hands threading into his floppy yellow locks. "God, I love you, Tetley."

Ed encircles his waist with slender arms. Gently he pulls him near, tracing his bottom lip with his thumb. "Not Tetley," he says, " _Taylor_."

The Deacons observe the pair from afar, amused and touched in equal measure. They hadn't been able to hear Ed's news, but witnessing the couple's reaction was a delight. It was satisfying to know there were good things headed their way. They deserved it. Every single second of happiness.

Their joy is infectious. "How does a midnight ride around Paris sound?" John offers. He'd had the Harley-Davidson join him on the continent with the express purpose of whisking his wife away.

Erica hums elatedly. "Absolutely perfect" she agrees. She looks once more to Roger and Ed, now rejoined by Brian. "Don't you think you ought to say something first?"

Doubtless, this wouldn't be the last time the brothers saw one another. It was still the end of an era, however. Sneaking off while the others weren't looking was a typically _him_ thing to do, but it didn't seem fair.

"I'll talk to them when we're back at the hotel" he excuses.

" _John_ -"

" _Alright_ ," he concedes, smiling faintly. Reluctantly he removes his hand from hers. Already he itched to be reunited with her, though he felt more at ease the closer he stepped toward his bandmates. He wasn't sure what he'd say. Whether they'd believe him when he said he'd always love them. He trusted they would. They were waving him over now, relieved by his reappearance. "Oi, Deaky!" Roger beckons, "We've got good news!"

"Let him get his breath back first, Rog" Brian cautions.

"Fuck that. We're having another kid!"

John steadies his nerves with a final look at Erica, over his shoulder. " _Alright_ " he repeats to himself, retirement finally his. He glances upwards, imagining that beyond the steel rafters Fred was watching from paradise. " _It's all alright_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed :-)
> 
> The final chapter will be an epilogue taking place some years into the future, so this is a goodbye to this era. Thank you for making it this far x


	45. Live Aid...Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 2017. The gang reunites for a movie... and a long-overdue wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this far :-) I hope you enjoy this final chapter x

Ed lounges in the director's chair. Legs dangling over the arms, he gestures indiscriminately at passing crew. " _You there_ " he orders, the mock-authoritarian tone he adopts ruined somewhat by the fit of giggles he promptly succumbs to. " _Is that scene bloody well done yet?_ "

The movie staff humors him with smiles. Erica observes from a distance, eager to show that she wasn't involved in her old friend's latest mischief. " _Ed_ " she cautions, "Don't get us kicked out, yeah?"

Reluctantly, the man parts with the chair. He joins her in a stroll around the set. They follow the natural stream of technicians to the front of a stage, considerable in size, and equipped with genuine amplifiers and microphones. A white sheet covers the backdrop, the _Live Aid_ logo easily recognizable on the material.

Erica finds herself slightly winded by the sight. Save for the lack of a Wembley audience, it was practically _identical_ to the real thing. Extras buzzed about on the peripheral, all dressed as was fashionable in 1985. All those vivid colors and _desperately short_ shorts and ridiculous perms. She regards her own outfit, youthful and, according to her children, surprisingly _cool_ for a fifty-five-year-old. _Not as cool as shoulder pads and power suits though_.

Ed kept up with the trends too, as much as he could. Still, he dyed his hair bleach blonde. Erica was a little more comfortable with the strands of grey that spread through her cropped curls.

Still, seeing things as they were all those years ago was a trip.

Roger and Brian are similarly intrigued. Aging but still rocking away, they offer last-minute guidance to their lookalikes.

Everyone had been stunned when they saw Brian's doppelganger in costume. It was as if the guitarist had stepped into a time machine in order to play himself. The film's Freddie was just as perfect. The real Fred would have adored him, they were certain. What little they'd seen of Rami's performance so far, they were moved by. Erica had developed an immediate liking to the man. They'd bonded over their shared Egyptian ancestry.

She hadn't yet met John's portrayer, but she was confident he'd be just as faithful.

Ed nods toward the young actor portraying his own husband. "That Ben is adorable, isn't he?" he exhales wistfully.

"Very cute" Erica agrees.

The actor notices them gossiping and approaches, slightly bashful. " _Hey_ " he greets, starstruck, "I'm a big fan-" He cringes at himself. "Not in an _uncool_ way or anything, it's just I grew up with you guys-"

Erica grimaces. _Grew up with you guys_. Christ, they were getting old. "Thank you, love" she replies, "I can't wait to see you guys in action."

Ed nods. "If you need any tips on playing Rog, you're welcome to ask. And if he tells you he's humble, he's lying his arse off."

"They're both cocky twats" his colleague remarks, gesturing first to her friend then to the drummer. She shrugs when the former protests. "You _are_."

Ben grins. "Cheers, guys". Someone approaching from behind catches his eye. His smile teeters on a smirk. Erica notices Brian and Roger pause their conversation, too. The guitarist even had his phone out again, the camera raised, ready to capture whatever was going on.

She freezes, nervous.

" _Hello, Erica_ " comes a voice.

 _John's voice_ , but younger. Identical to how it had been when they first met. Dazed, she turns on her heel to face the ghost. There stands the final piece of the puzzle. A charming young man with deep eyes like her husband's, and a nose like his too. A permed wig sits atop his head, fluffy and glorious. He wore the pink shirt and blue jeans she could remember John wearing that day.

The version of him she fell in love with.

"You okay?" the actor goes on. God, even the slight lisp sounded just right.

She isn't sure why, but she bursts into tears.

The rest of the gang watch as she gives the man a warm hug. Brian places his phone back in his pocket, satisfied with the reaction. No doubt the footage would end up on that _Instagram_ thing he was so addicted to.

"I didn't mean to make you cry!" Joe frets, breaking into his natural American. He holds the woman close. "I'm so sorry!" His castmates chuckle. It was a tremendous responsibility, but a wonderful honor. They'd put hours into ensuring they did their parts justice. Erica's tears were confirmation that they were doing something right.

Erica pulls back to study him properly. He wasn't just physically similar. He was kind. A compassion lingered behind those sweet brown eyes of his that reminded her instantly of John. "This is so _weird_ " she breathes. She reaches out to touch his wig. "Can I?"

"Oh, please" Joe invites.

Sneaking a return to the director's chair, Ed looks the actor over curiously. "You remind me of the kid from Jurassic Park" he observes.

"I am."

He almost slips off the canvas. "Oh my God, I'm such a huge fan-"

* * *

The Deacon home is quiet, save for the faint strumming of a bass guitar in the basement below. Erica takes her time restoring her coat to its usual peg on the stand. Jimmy would get embarrassed and chase her out if she went into the studio. Instead, she listens from afar, noting the delicate intricacies her son plucks out. He was a damn good musician. Shy, but working on it.

He was the last of her brood. The only one who hadn't yet flown the nest. George and Arthur had moved into their own apartments years previously. She'd always joked that she'd be glad to have a peaceful household again, but she missed them both terribly.

Surprisingly, John was more comfortable with it. He enjoyed not having kids running him wild anymore. He was leisurely, peaceful.

He's bent over a crossword when his wife joins him in the sitting room, spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He taps his pencil at a particular column, stumped. Scratching at his bald spot, he consults the clues again. "Do you know a movie by someone called Greta Gerwig?" he ponders, "Starts with an L."

" _Ladybird_ " Erica answers, flopping down into the cushions. She seeks out her slippers from under the seat, humming as she slides her feet into them. Why she'd ever mocked such footwear as being for _old people_ , she didn't know. She'd go to work in them if she could.

The word fits perfectly in the crossword. "Thanks, love" John nods, "You're more up to date with these things than I am."

His wife kicks back in her armchair. "I think it's important to keep up."

He pins her over the rim of his glasses. "If you call me an _old fart_ once more, Mrs. Deacon-"

"I'd never _dare_ , Habibi" she giggles, "You're quite cool, y'know."

John laughs at that. His voice was quite hoarse these days, the result of so many years of smoking. She'd claimed to have quit years ago but still found herself sneaking the odd drag with him in the backyard. 

That was usually how the paparazzi caught him. Enjoying a cigarette on the doorstep.

"You know more about _phones_ and _computers_ than I do" she acknowledges, "I still remember when you helped me set my email account up."

Ed had insisted the production company adopt every technological advancement that hit Britain. Suddenly, every member of staff had a computer screen on their desks. Everyone's phones could do much more than _take calls_. Erica did her best to keep up, though she didn't understand a lot of it.

"Here's one for you then" John challenges, straightening his puzzle book out, "Dating app. Starts with a G."

" _Grindr_ " she answers automatically. He quirks an eyebrow at her. "Ninety percent of my mates are _gay_ , John."

They fall into a comfortable silence, distracted by their respective evening activities. An email flashes up on Erica's phone from Brian. From the summary on the lock screen, it seemed he was inviting her to return to the movie set. She immediately replies. ' _Yes please!_ ', with a little alien emoji for good measure. Her favorite, now she knew how to find them.

She hesitates. Did she bring up the movie? She knew John had approved it, but she hadn't yet determined how he really felt about it. She risks it. "The cast seems very lovely. I'm really impressed."

John doesn't look up from his crossword. His aging features even out, deliberately neutral. " _Oh_?" 

"They'd love to meet you. I'm sure they could learn a lot-"

" _Not a chance_."

He'd worked hard to preserve his privacy. Hollywood blockbuster or not, he'd do what he'd been doing ever since his retirement twenty years ago. _Keep to himself_. The Deacons had suffered the odd indiscretion here and there. Ambushes from dedicated fans that left him a nervous wreck. Intrusive journalists desperate to get a glimpse of the person they wrongly labeled a recluse. Even the kids weren't immune.

Not that he wasn't intrigued by the idea of being _portrayed_.

"Does he look like me?" he asks, eager to not sound too interested, "The guy playing me?"

Erica smiles. Dearly, she wished he could meet Joe, if only so he could appreciate how dedicated the actor was to his role. "Very much so. It's like you're his long-lost father or something."

Idly, John colors in one of the empty columns. The answer had something to do with _Love Island_. He'd ask Jim went he emerged from the studio. For now, his thoughts were uncomfortably consumed by this upcoming biopic. The prospect of Fred's legacy being immortalized, _celebrated_ in such a way made him proud. And there weren't many bands who had feature-length pictures made about them, were there? But he also worried. What if the movie was a hit and he found himself fighting off a frenzied wave of intrusion?

And the guy playing him? What if he didn't portray him well? John shakes that notion away. If Erica was impressed by the man, that was enough for him. Perhaps he ought to drop the actor a line? Let him know that he was on board with the project?

Erica could practically hear the internal deliberations he conducted. She plays coyly, not wanting to pry. "I'm not implying he's actually your illegitimate son, Habibi" she jokes.

The elderly bassist chortles. "If anyone's got illegitimate children running around, it's Roger."

He pauses, expression bordering on pensive. He'd just realized how long it had been since he'd spoken his bandmate's name. _Too long_.

* * *

Ed kisses the teddy bear goodbye before sealing the box. It was the latest of a series of childhood memories he'd had to pack away. His daughter had tutted at him every time, usually equipped with some retort about how she ' _wasn't even going that far away_ '. He'd always remind her that Cambridge was, in fact, quite a distance from London. ' _A short train ride away_ '. An expensive one. ' _You can afford it_ '. That wasn't the point.

His little Rose was moving out. His youngest. His darling angel, joining her friends in a university dormitory.

Roger catches his husband sniffle. "This _again_?" he groans, holding out a fresh tissue, "She's not going to _Mars_."

"What if she doesn't eat properly? What if she needs help with her laundry?" Ed blurts, paranoia tipping him over the edge.

"She's twenty. She can look after herself."

"What if she needs our help on her assignments?"

"You don't know anything about biochemistry, sweetheart."

The younger man folds his arms crossly. He appeals to his eldest with sad eyes. "Poppy, your father is being unsympathetic again."

A pretty blonde rolls her eyes. Seizing one of the brown boxes, she makes for the bedroom door. "I'm not getting involved". She leaves her fathers to it, keen to support her little sister on what was destined to be an exhausting day. The Taylor girls weren't unsympathetic to Ed's worry. It was touching. He'd been so attentive to them both as they grew. A little separation anxiety was warranted.

Roger appeals to his partner before he can get too worked up. "We can visit her whenever you like," he says. He considers Rose's reaction to that pledge. "Well, whenever _she_ wants, at least."

Ed perches down on the bed. He smooths over the wrinkles on sheets, adorned with a vintage floral pattern. He could remember when she'd had a horse-themed spread. Then fairies. And superheroes for a brief period. The room had been overtaken by a variety of obsessions over the years. Some of those old hallmarks remained, like the unicorn nightlight she still kept on her nightstand.

He noticed it hadn't been packed away with her other things.

"It's hard, Rog" he laments, "One minute they need you for everything. The next, they can't get away quick enough."

The drummer sits beside him and eases him against his chest, enveloping him in a supportive cuddle. "I know" he sighs.

"Like, that's all the major milestones up, isn't it? Moving in, getting hitched, raising a family. It's all done with."

Roger bites his lip. "Well, we haven't _actually_ got married."

Ed's too emotionally distraught to comprehend what he actually meant. He makes a point of showing off the wedding bands they both wore, as polished and perfect as they'd been their first evening as a married couple. He's offended when his husband scoffs.

"You tit. I meant _legally_."

The younger man's heart stops. " _What_?"

Roger glances around for any passing children. It didn't matter if they saw the proposal. Might even make it a more precious moment. But he'd waited so long to be able to actually ask the question. It had taken years for the law to make it a possibility. _Fuck it_. He sinks to one knee, brushing away one of the stray hangers Rose had left on the carpet. "Ed-"

" _Yes!_ ," he cries, throwing himself at the older man.

" _Let me finish_ " the drummer huffs. Ed nods dutifully, hands kept by his sides. "Ed, will you-" He's cut off by an impassioned kiss.

" _Yes_!"

"Oh, for the love of-"

* * *

A handsome young man in flares swaggers past the two hosts. He aims a flirtatious wink at both. Their children simmer jealously in the background. They'd all gathered the second they'd heard who was on the guestlist for the TV's show _thirty-year special_.

 _Harry Styles_. He'd first caught their attention as a member of a popular boyband but had since gone solo. Ed and Erica were unashamed to admit they were big fans. It was satisfying to know the music industry remained in good hands. Another celebrity from his generation was poised to appear. _Zendaya_ , a brilliant young actress they were ever-so-slightly obsessed with.

There were classic acts on the roster too.

Erica's old pal Keith Richards had instantly called her up when he heard about the celebration. A solid fifteen pleas later, she'd agreed to let the Stones open the show. They rehearsed while the crew hung around backstage, buzzing with excitement.

None had ever imagined _Real Ambition_ would survive for so long in the business. It had been such a risk at the time. Now, look at them.

They produced a myriad of programs, from reality to documentary to comedy. The duo oversaw the production of them all. They'd earned a pretty penny in the process, more than they'd ever anticipated. Most of the projects were written by people like them. Women, people of color, LGBTQ+ folks. The kind who weren't allowed as much of a look in on the business thanks to the Matt's and Mr. Michaels of the world.

Society was a little more advanced than it had been in the eighties and nineties. The arrival of equal marriage in Britain was a particular highlight.

"Last outing as an _unmarried man_ " Ed jests, straightening the collar of his suit. Harry strolls by again, oozing style, distraction enough to make him pull the knot of his tie apart. He fumbles with the material hopelessly.

Erica assists, pulling it back into a neat, slim loop. "You should do something _wild_."

Her friend considers that, then the dull backache he'd woken with. " _Perhaps not_."

"By the way" he recalls, "I was wondering if you'd consider walking me down the aisle."

He's amazed how rapidly tears rise to the corners of her eyes. She did that a lot lately, invariably caught in a ruminative spell. The days went on, and those heady memories of the _old gang_ faded. There were new ones to savor, but it wasn't the same, was it?

"Oh, Ed, I'd love to" Erica beams. She strokes her friend's cheek tenderly. "I'm really proud of you."

Ed feels a strange lump lodge itself in his throat. The horrid, destructive commentary that still haunted his mind sometimes maintained that any sign of affection he was shown must be false. Even with Roger, the love of his life, he was prone to insecurity. Never with Erica. Boyfriends had come and gone, love affairs started and ended, addictions adopted and shaken off, and she'd always been there, her love for him boundless.

"They say it's your soulmate you marry" he utters, "But I met mine long before all that."

She sinks against him. "I love you, you strange little man" she weeps.

They lace their fingers together and face the heavy curtain that separated the set from the backstage area. They still had an hour or two before the audience were due to arrive. Plenty of time to go over their lines, not that they ever stuck to them.

"I suppose we should prepare, shouldn't we?" Ed suggests.

Erica jerks her head. "We could," she says, "Or we could mess around with the Stones' amps."

The presence of such a group prompts her to pat her blazer pocket. She just about makes out the outlines of a crisply rolled blunt, something she'd intended to make the most of when she had a chance. She checks the children aren't snooping. It was one of the habits they routinely lectured her about. Her little treat in exchange for a successful show.

Her old friend squints. "You take on Richards, I'll deal with Wood."

They solidify the plan with a handshake and a wicked cackle.

Age be damned. Erica could puff away like the best of them. And they sure as Hell could still stir up trouble together.

* * *

It was a good thing that Ed was not present on the movie set. Erica imagined he'd have had a hard time staying quiet. It was a wonder to her how she'd stayed so silent while the cameras were rolling. She assumed it was a sense of awe that held her tongue.

The cast had been presented with a monumental task; capturing the magic of Live Aid.

They'd achieved perfectly, from what she'd witnessed so far. The scenes that showed the band's performance were stunning. There were other sequences vital to the story. Like Jim's presence at the gig. A lovely man named Aaron portrayed him.

Something else that left Erica feeling a little sensitive. She missed Jim terribly.

The scene currently underway cheered her up.

A young actress with brown skin and coarse curls like hers goes about her business in the background, a BBC lanyard hanging around her neck. Lost in a chaotic stream of technicians and artists, she scarcely notices the band walk by. They wait behind the curtain, respective gear held close, listening nervously to the hosts introduce them.

When she does look up, the bassist is already looking her way. They exchange a shy glance and a smile that grows the longer their eyes linger. The kind of gaze shared by two people who desperately liked one another, despite how little they knew.

Erica hoped it would make the final cut.

It was poignant, poetic. An acknowledgment of what that electric afternoon in Wembley had meant. Charity, celebration, and the promise of love.

She could never have anticipated the chain of events that would lead to that movie set, to a version of her youthful self making eyes at her beloved Habibi.

Live Aid had been the genesis for so much. Her career, and Ed's too. The beginning of a beautiful friendship with the band. Ed's relationship with Roger. Hers with John. The roots were all sewn there.

Some had said it would never last. Hell, she wasn't sure she'd believed they'd be where they were now. Maintaining their careers, their relationships; it hadn't been easy, but they'd managed it.

And that was all that mattered.

* * *

"Boo!"

Roger jumps back an inch or two, startled by his partner's unexpected arrival in his dressing room. "You're not supposed to be in here" he curses.

Ed shrugs. Confidently he paces about the space, taking a moment to check over his appearance in the mirror. His fittings were concluded for the time being, and he'd been feeling lonely.

The drummer watches him preen himself enviously. He was used to his husband's vanity but it wasn't well-timed. He tries to cover up the collection of suits he'd rejected before they can be noticed.

 _Too late_.

"Which one's your favorite?" Ed asks, inspecting the suits one by one. They ranged from black to grey and were relatively traditional. Ed's options were wild enough. It was a good thing his conservative family had no intention of attending the wedding.

They'd get a shock when Ed strolled down the aisle in a baby pink three-piece.

"Uh-" Roger stutters. Blindly he seizes a hanger and presents it. He immediately regrets his decision. He'd managed to pick the worst fitting one.

"Can I see it on you?"

"No. It's bad luck."

"Oh, _rubbish_ -"

Roger huffs. "Look, it's too _tight_ , alright?" he growls, "They're all too tight."

Ed's expression falters. He reaches out placatingly. "Let's find something that fits a little more comfortably then" he proposes. He isn't sure what to say when the older man resigns himself to the seat in the corner, arms covering his stomach. He was almost doubled over, as if his fears about his image weighed so heavily on his shoulders he was about to collapse. His partner had never seen him so vulnerable.

This was their wedding. It would break his heart if Roger went into the ceremony feeling bad about himself.

"What's the point?" the drummer declares, "I'm _old_ " He casts his sights over his younger lover. "You're still so thin. So good-looking" He gestures frustratedly to his middle-aged spread. "Look at me."

Ed kneels down before him and joins their hands together. "I am looking" he speaks, "And I think you're more handsome now than you've ever been."

"You're not _old_. Even if you were, I wouldn't care. Because we'd be growing old _together_. And that means more to me than maintaining a small waist size."

Roger loosens his hold around his middle. Relaxes into the calming patterns his husband draws into his skin. He wasn't totally convinced he was _handsome_ , but Ed believed it, meant it, held it dear.

He couldn't wait to marry him. Properly this time.

"Wear whatever you're most comfortable in" he guides.

"I'm not turning up in jogging pants and a t-shirt" Roger chuckles, "I want to look smart for you."

Gently Ed lifts him to his feet. The rejected suits remain ignored. "Let's have another look through the racks. There must be something here you'll like."

Roger barely hears. He lets himself be taken back into the shop. Together they glide along the rows, inspecting shirt after shirt, jacket after jacket. One of the assistants approaches and offers to give them a hand. Ed steps in when he's too embarrassed to explain why he didn't like the suits he'd picked previously.

He figured he probably could approach the altar in jogging pants and still Ed wouldn't care. He wouldn't, _obviously_. He wanted to feel like the handsome groom his fiance saw in him.

* * *

Erica tears her head from her pillow, eyes wrenching open. She steadies herself on the mattress, breathing rather more bated than she'd have liked at such an early hour. The clock on the nightstand tells her it's three in the morning. She'd been enjoying her dream until its law few seconds.

Yet another Madonna fantasy. The two women were behaving outrageously and apologizing for none of it. Then the singer had suggested something too risque even for Erica, and she'd been forced awake.

She notices John is already up. He sits upright, staring blankly at the far wall.

"Sorry, Habibi, was I being loud again?" she asks bashfully.

Her husband delays in responding, quite lost in a world of his own. " _Hmm_?"

" _Nothing_."

Erica fetches herself a cup of water, doing her best to not let her body language betray how awkward she felt. Once she climbs into bed again, refreshed, she realizes John isn't paying any attention at all.

"What is it, omri?" she poses. He doesn't bother with half-baked lies. She'd known him too long to be fooled by the words ' _I'm fine_ '.

John sinks against her. Wordlessly he invites her to hold him, to stroke what little hair he had left just as he liked it. He hadn't sought such nursing in her in years.

Recent activities were stirring everything up. He didn't know what to make of it all.

"My secretary says she's being bombarded with interview requests. And on my walk yesterday I noticed a cameraman following me" he sighs, "It's this movie, isn't it? They're all after me again."

Erica's blood starts to boil. "You shouldn't have to put up with it, Habibi. You've made it perfectly clear you want to be left alone."

The press didn't see what their intrusion did to him. The strain it placed on him. Even some fans didn't respect his wishes. One too many times since his retirement, the Deacons had been ambushed leaving restaurants and theatres, private family moments destroyed by vultures who shoved their autograph books in his hand.

None seemed to understand how upsetting those final Queen years had been for him. He wasn't the hopelessly fragile old man some publications claimed he was, but the pain of losing Fred had never really gone away.

Privacy was his remedy. And now it was under threat.

"I'm afraid" he admits.

"If I could scream at them and make them all go away, I would," Erica says, cradling him, "If it's any comfort, just know I'll always be with you."

John snuggles against her chest, the warmth radiating off her easing the effects of his anxiety. "I know, love."

She taps him on the nose, wanting him to look at her properly. "Do you know why I think this movie is a good idea?"

"Because you and Ed are getting a production credit on it?"

"That's nice, but _no_."

She lifts his chin, stroking the stubble there with her thumb. "Because a whole new generation will get to see how talented and brilliant you are". Through the shadows, she makes out the faint etchings of a smile, and the sparkle of grey-green eyes that age never seemed to dull. "Funny and handsome, too."

John's happy with that. "I can't imagine spending the rest of my life with anyone else," he says.

Erica puckers her lips, eager for a quick kiss. "You don't have to, Habibi. I'm yours."

Their lips meet, brief but loving. After all this time, the sensation still caused fireworks to ignite and explode behind their eyelids. Something the years could never hope to rob them of.

They lie still for a while, waiting to see if the tranquility they felt in each other's arms was potent enough to let them drift off again. Something else lingers on the bassist's mind. Another quandary that made his head spin.

"Do you think I'll ever see Roger and Brian again?" he queries.

His wife looks upwards thoughtfully. He'd barely entertained the idea since they went their separate ways. "Do you want to?"

"I'm not sure."

* * *

Confetti rains down on a pristine, green lawn. Beneath a wooden archway adorned with white flowers, the newlyweds emerge, hand in hand. A small number of guests get to their feet, applauding and whooping, relieved to finally see their friends' commitment honored.

The Taylor girls shower their parents with sparkly strands. Ed brushes away the piles accumulating in his hair, wanting his view of his new husband unhindered. Roger meets his gaze. They hadn't yet made it to the end of the aisle again, but that didn't matter. They share a kiss, their second as a married couple. It was the greatest they'd ever had.

Because they'd finally made it.

The Deacon children take to throwing their own bags of confetti like water balloons, mocking one another joyfully when they made a hit. Erica barely notices her brood's mischief, not even when the stuff comes cascading down her dress. Nothing could depress her or anger her on a day like this.

Holding her friend's hand as he walked to meet his partner was a heavenly feeling.

Ed deserved it. Roger deserved it. They both deserved so much happiness.

The promise of a frivolous reception in the Taylor's backyard on the horizon, the invitees offer their congratulations then make a beeline towards the buffet cart. The couple is grateful for the peace and quiet. They wanted a moment alone with the gang.

Meetings involving the entire group were so few and far between these days.

Anita and Brian approach the arch first, grinning ecstatically. The actress dabs at the corners of her eyes with a length of silk and flaps her hands about, insisting she'd never wept so much at a wedding before. The guitarist pulls his old bandmate in for a hug. "Well done, Rog" he beams, "I'm so happy for you both."

Roger playfully pokes the man in the ribs. "Told you I'd make an honest man of him."

Ed watches his husband laugh, mess around. He looked wonderful, practically _glowing_. 

He'd found a suit he was happy in eventually. A grey three-piece with a tie that matched the light pink of his own suit. He'd had his haircut for the occasion, though his heavy white beard remained. _God_ , he was gorgeous. And all his, forevermore.

Roger didn't think he'd ever felt as at peace with the world as he did then, fingers intertwined with his.

"Where are you off to on your honeymoon?" Erica asks.

"Not fucking _Bali_ " Ed quips.

"Actually, it's quite nice this time of year."

The gang whip around faster than anything.

Some feet away, dressed in a smart beige suit, stands _John_.

"Sorry to crash" he mumbles sheepishly, "I should have arrived with Erica, I know, but-"

" _Deaky_?" Brian stutters, brows shooting as far along his temple as was humanly possible. Roger hesitates. Erica studies his expression, terrified some hint of hostility would appear there.

The boys hadn't seen their brother for so long. Had missed so many vital moments in the band's evolution. Yet here he was, out of the blue.

"I just wanted to offer my congratulations" John utters, shuffling forward nervously. He casts wary glances over to the other guests, frightened of them pouncing on him or creating a scene. He extends a white envelope. "The grandkids helped make the card. I hope you like it."

Ed takes it gratefully and blows the bassist a kiss. Still, Roger stands frozen.

Tentatively, Brian meets John halfway. "Deaky, it's wonderful to see you" he gushes, pulling him into a tight embrace, "We've missed you."

"You too, mate."

They await the drummer's response. Erica joins her husband's side, squeezing his hand supportively. She knew how hard it must have been for him to seek the boys out, especially with others present.

Roger's countenance cracks. Before their eyes, he seems to transform into his youthful, cheeky self. He nudges his husband playfully. "Told you he'd be the first to go _bald_ ," he remarks. 

Breaking into a cheerful grin, he bounds towards John and wraps his arms around him. He pulls Brian back in, too. Soon the three old dears are caught in an intimate huddle. John breaks away first, slightly overwhelmed. "I'm sorry I've barely spoken these last twenty years" he offers, retreating into the safety of his wife's space.

"Doesn't matter, mate" Brian urges, "You're here now."

Roger reclaims his hold on his beloved partner. Snaking an arm around Ed's waist, he sighs contentedly. "I didn't think this day could possibly get better" he declares. He leans onto the tips of his toes for a kiss. Ed gladly obliges. "A drink, Mr. Taylor?"

"Ooh, I'd love a smoothie" the other Mr. Taylor nods.

 _Mr. Taylor_. That would never get old.

The gang merges together as they make their way to the bar, chatting amongst themselves. It was like they'd never been apart. The children tag along, new generations mixing with old. They got along well. Perhaps they'd form a gang of their own before the day was done?

"I wish Fred could be here" Erica confesses, linking arms with her Habibi, "He'd be so happy to see how in love those two are."

The newlyweds had reached the bar, Ed perching on Roger's lap while he sipped on his drink. They speak in hushed tones. Their usual flirtatious back-and-forth, presumably, or mischief of some kind.

John spares a thought for the heavens. He looks to the clouds, noting the original patterns they formed against a perfect blue sky. Beyond them, their friend observed. Celebrated with them, cat on his lap, Jim by his side.

"He's watching" he speaks, " _I know he is_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this final installment :-) And the happy ending!
> 
> This has been so much fun to write, and all your lovely comments have meant so much to me.
> 
> If you have a favorite moment from this story, please drop it below! I'll be commenting my favorite bits :-)
> 
> Thank you again, so much, for joining Ed and Erica on their adventure.


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